Old Blood
by Oil on Canvas
Summary: The Battle of Camlann never happened, thus the legacy of Arthur lives on. The blood of the founders still walk the halls of Hogwarts, while ancient enemies clash to this day. Years later, Harry Potter wakes up a stranger in a strange world. Between over competitive house relations and never ending mysterious plots, he must struggle to find the truth about that fated Halloween. AU
1. Prologue & The Two Witches

**Disclaimer: I make no profit from this piece of work. Cover credits go to Numyumy.**

* * *

 **Prologue**

Pvt. Johnson woke up that morning, not in the best of moods. He had been stationed over Little Whinging for over four months now, and, although he didn't hate it, the small town was the most peaceful (read boring) place he ever set foot in his short life. Now don't get me wrong, Johnson wasn't in any particular hurry to be welcomed onto the battlefield by a stray bullet, no sir thanks but no thanks. But you see, before joining His Majesty's Armed Forces, Johnson had fancied himself a man of action – or ill-breed boy, the Madam at the school would say – and always dreamed of partaking in glorious battles and daring rescues, away triumphing over the legions of the Usurper. And so he had not thought twice about enlisting as soon as he got of age, if against the protests of his mother.

But four months on guard duty and the most exciting thing he had seen was an almost car crash on one of the busier days. He still remembered how the drivers got out and promptly apologized to each other in overly polite nods. And that was his life in the military. A far cry from storming the Usurper's castle holding only a knife with his teeth, true, but what's a bloke to do?

He chuckled, laughing at his own joke, while chewing on... whatever they served in the mess hall, almost spilling it. Besides him Pvt. Bryce gave him a look, raising an eyebrow. Bryce had been his shift mate for at least ten weeks now. Johnson couldn't say he the arrangement dissatisfied him (his ex-partner Clinton had been a dick), the blonde soldier was an agreeable fellow if one could excuse his eternal cheerfulness. In fact, Bryce's liveliness had gone up over the past few days, having found a local girl to gallivant around on his breaks (and out of them). True, Johnson had thought of doing the same in the beginning, but his plans were crushed when the Sargent seemed to take a liking to him and relished in any opportunity to punish the younger soldier. Johnson had sighed in resignation, shrugging at it. Nowadays it looked like he could not take a step without his superior breathing down his neck.

"Oi, you alright there mate?" Bryce asked, taking a break from whatever he had been saying before.

Johnson muttered something under his breath to dismiss his partner. Bryce seemed to understand his bad mood and decided to leave him alone. But not for long. Pretty soon Johnson's ears were being abused again as the other male, having finished his breakfast, resumed his speech on the Tales Of All And Every Thing On The Life Of Colbert Bryce. He didn't mind; in all honesty, the silence irritated him sometimes.

So after finishing his plate of disgusting nutritious food, gathering his gear, being yelled at by the Sargent and having to start the old jeep three times, Johnson and Bryce left the base for another exciting eight hours of watching the neighbourhood of Little Whinging.

He didn't make to the first corner before sighting the confirmation that day really wasn't one of his.

A group of strangers people blocked the street, not so quite whispering together, arms waving in the air, and lips moving quick. All in cloaks of different colours. Johnson, though free-spirited, never saw himself as a rebellious youth. He didn't buy into the alternative sense of fashion other teenagers had favoured back on his time. Yet, he couldn't say he didn't know of all the new and inventive getups they would come up with every few years and, truth be told, he didn't give a damn; they could dress up for all he cared. But obstructing streets for their weird collections was just plain rude.

Counting to ten in his head, he honked his way through the bodies, promising himself he'd just run over them if they didn't move fast enough. But when he took a closer look, more than a few of his obstructors turned out to be not the youngsters he imagined; that guy's beard had to be reaching his chest, he must have been as old as his dad!

"...yes murdered…"

"...incredible… "

"...all by himself ..."

"...Black did it, you say?…"

"...is it over? It's over r-right?..."

Fragments of their quiet conversation made it to him through his unrelenting hoking. He had not heard of any murders that morning, but he guessed it wasn't that late yet, so maybe he would catch wind of it later from the radio. Perhaps that was why all these weird people were making a ruckus; someone they knew had been killed? Deciding it didn't matter – God knew someone was always being killed somewhere these days – he pushed it out of his mind and focused on getting through the crowd.

Nothing else disturbed him for the rest of the trip to the post, bless the King, save for an unnatural amount of owls swooping past. What the hell, he thought, crazy day. It was just one of those, he knew. He sat down on the watching-booth, tuned his pocket radio on the sports station and let his mind go numb. Along the day he spotted more of those weird fellas in cloaks. Curiosity almost compelled him to stop and question one of them, but the broadcaster just announced the results for the junior league.

Much later, almost by sundown, that he spotted Bryce coming from his own cabin across the street, with the usual sheepish grin he carried every time he wanted to make one of his escapades to visit his bird.

"Hey there, partner," Bryce said, looking down and scratching his neck, "you got any plans for this evening?"

"You can go see your lass, it's all good over here," Johnson said, chuckling.

"Cheers mate," the blonde lauded, already turning to leave. He turned one last time before adding, "I'll pay you back when you find yours."

Johnson just shook his head, smiling despite himself, "Sure thing, Bryce."

But Bryce had gone. Good thing they had been assigned to a place as peaceful as Little Whinging where no one ever checked on them. The Sargent would have a field day if he learned of one of them neglecting his duties. Hell, best he not even dream of it. Johnson shuddered at the thought and went back to his radio.

Later, he browsed through the stations when the evening news caught his attention:

"...and more on our latest news about the sudden death of the Usurper. If you happen to have turned us on right now, the Usurper and a significant part of his court were found dead this morning in his ancestral residence. Although there have been attempts to hush the spread of information, our sources point out that property damage was quite significant. Yet no declaration has come from Camelot, either to take responsibility for the attack or to comment on the event. We've invited Professor Durrant Coke, PhD, and Political Science Professor at the University College London, to talk more about this issue. Good evening Professor, what do you think this could mean for the war effort from now on?"

"Good evening Tom, thank you for inviting me. I believe this spells an end for the pretenders' campaign now that the head of the snake is no longer attached to the body, so to speak. We have seen such cases many times before and with prime examples this very century in Hitler and Mussolini. For all intents and purposes, we can consider this civil war to be over. I would say we can expect an official treaty for the end of hostilities in a few days at most, even more considering..."

Johnson sat frozen on his plastic chair.

The Usurper was dead; the war was over. What were the cloaks talking about earlier?

But these thoughts were mostly drowned by the conflicting feelings spreading inside him. On one hand, it made him glad the ten-year-old war was coming to a close, and, of course, he wouldn't be dying by way of any stray bullets. On the other, he wouldn't come anywhere near stray bullets to begin with! Where was the action?! The glory?! He sighed; at least his mother would be happy in a few weeks when he'd return home after decommission.

The fireworks started some time after that and went on for awhile – not that many though, people still feared the rebels would just keep going without their so-called king, but not enough to not allow the people to breathe a little easier now. He checked his pulse watch; Bryce returned at that time most days. He and his girlfriend had probably caught air of the news and decided to extend their evening liaison. There must have been some festivities going on at the bars downtown. Johnson hoped he would remember to come back the end of their shift; he wouldn't like to have to ask the next guys to keep quiet about that.

It was then he noticed someone approaching the gate. One of those people with cloaks (purple at that!), a tall, thin old man with very long silver hair and beard. He carried a bundle of blankets on his arms.

Johnson rose from his chair, walked out of the booth and moved to meet the stranger over the traffic fence. Up close he could see how old the man truly was. Wrinkles covered most of his exposed skin. A long and crooked nose served as support for small half-moon spectacles. Still, his blue eyes twinkled with life, giving him a much younger air than his appearance would otherwise indicate.

The senior had an odd familiarity, but Johnson couldn't quite place him.

"Good evening, sir, can I help you?"

"Good evening. Beautiful night, isn't it?" the man said jovially. Johnson nodded. The stranger continued, his smile widening, "you wouldn't be interested in opening this gate for me, would you?

Johnson stared at him, "Can I see your documents?"

"Oh right, just a moment please." The man started rummaging in his loose clothes with his free hand. Johnson took that moment to better inspect the bundle of blankets. Through a gap, he saw a mess of black over pink; something that, for sure, could only be the head of a-

"Sir, is that a baby?" But no baby existed in the next second, and Johnson had no recollection one ever did.

"Alright, I believe those are what you asked for?" the old man handed a huddle of crumpled papers. Johnson gave them a once-over. They appeared okay; the stranger lived down one of the streets for something close to twenty years now. He cocked his eyebrow, looking one more time at the smiling old man, before moving to raise the fence.

"Thank you, young man, I am just dying to get home and rest these old bones in a nice warm bath," he said in his ever genial voice.

"It was no problem, Mr Glover, have a good one. Long live the King." He downed the fence again.

"And Praise be the Holy Sword!" exclaimed Mr Glover, again too cheerful. At least someone seemed to be enjoying himself. "And nice business with the war if I do say so myself. I knew you all had it in you."

Johnson said nothing but gave him a wry smile. Just as well, as the man had already resumed his walk down the lane with a brisk gait.

Later, Pvt. Bryce would return from his vagrancy, by the grace of the King not reeking of liquor. He would tell Pvt. Johnson everything about his evening with the lass with the long legs, how happy he was the war would be over and how he would try to maintain contact with the girl ("It's true love Johnson, you will understand someday!"). He would ask how the shift went and if anything exciting had happened. Johnson would say no, just the usual people that did the exact same trip every day back from work. Nothing unusual. No one interesting. The lads for the next shift would arrive and they would drive back to the base in their old jeep.

And somewhere that town, in a street called Privet Drive, a certain Mr Dursley would wake to a very uncomfortable surprise.

 **Chapter One: The Two Witches**

Harry Potter woke up on the morning of his eleventh birthday feeling better than he felt in years. He didn't even mind when his Aunt Petunia racked her knuckles on the door of his small bedroom like the end of the world and snapped for him to rise and come down to help her prepare breakfast. He put on some of his over-sized hand-me-downs from Dudley and made his way down the stairs and into the kitchen. Sitting at the table still in his pyjamas, his Uncle Vernon seemed to have decided to not go to work that day; his face behind the morning journal was of a man readying himself for war.

"Good morning," Harry said, such was his good mood. He received a grunt back from his uncle and a frying pan from his aunt. She had started on the bacon, and Harry moved on to the eggs, humming a song to himself – which earned a cold glare from Aunt Petunia, but otherwise went unprotested.

The reason for Harry cheerfulness was a rather sudden phone call his Aunt received a couple days prior. Harry remembered how, for days, strange letters addressed to his name arrived with increasing persistence in the home of the Dursleys. After the first one, when his relatives decided to move him into Dudley's second bedroom (which was good), Uncle Vernon had been obstinate in not letting Harry get his hand on one of the letters (which was bad). The situation got so ridiculous he even found his uncle sleeping by the mail slot on the door one morning, which led to some trampling, some shouting, and the innocent slot being nailed shut.

But one afternoon after a new batch of letters came in, it all came to an end when the living room phone roared, startling his relatives – who, in truth, were quite easy to startle these days. His aunt and uncle shared a look and she moved to answer the call.

"H-Hello," she said, "yes, I am." She stayed silent for a few seconds then looked at Harry, who, like Uncle Vernon, listened in by the door, and her face bleached, "y-yes he does." Then she looked at Vernon with desperate eyes, "A-actually, I don't think that's a good day, y-you see my husb-" she stuttered, but shut her mouth again, her face losing even more colour, "O-okay, we'll be waiting." She finished, putting the phone down. She spun to face Vernon and Harry.

"Who was it?" Uncle Vernon beat him to the question.

"It's the one who's been sending the letters," she looked at Harry with apprehensive eyes, "she's coming here."

"I'LL NOT ALLOW IT," his uncle exploded at his side, his face getting redder by the second, "I WON'T HAVE ANYMORE OF HIS ILK AT MY HOUSE! GIVE ME HER NUMBER PETUNIA I'LL CALL BACK AND GIVE THEM A PIECE OF MY MIND!"

Uncle Vernon kept ranting on for a couple more minutes, but to no avail; the person on the other side didn't bother leaving a contact number. In the end, his relatives hurried Harry back to his room while they discussed the upcoming visitor.

Harry put the eggs on the table and joined the rest of the family. Dudley came down minutes earlier and had been trying to poke Harry with his Smeltings stick.

"Dad, when does the guest arrive?" Dudley asked between great mouthfuls of sausage and eggs. Harry put a little more on his own plate, just to be on the safe side.

"Later," Uncle Vernon groaned.

"Who is it?"

"I told you Duddydums, it's one of Mummy's old acquaintances — you don't know her," Aunt Petunia answered instead, trying a quick glance at Uncle Vernon. She spread a bit more peanut butter on a toast for good measure before putting in down on Dudley's plate.

"Why is she coming here?" he insisted. Harry stayed silent throughout the exchange. Maybe he would learn something if he stayed silent long enough.

"To talk about your cousin — now eat your breakfast, you're a growing boy and need to eat properly," she replied with a tone of finality she seldom used on her son. Harry did not comment on the 'properly', getting his satisfaction instead from Dudley's sulky face as he went back to his eggs with a vengeance.

"Higher import taxes?!" Uncle Vernon brandished his journal in anger, no longer able to contain his bad mood. "Have those baboons at Camelot gone mad?! King Samwell would never stand for this! Just wait and see until..."

Harry tuned out another of his uncle's usual rants about the sickly king of Britain and how he would 'straighten this country up' as soon as he got better, which would happen any day now. He still remembered the first time his uncle had said it years before.

'Later' came fast while Harry kept himself busy with his every-day chores. He had just finished trimming the grass before Aunt Petunia hurried him inside, told him to take a shower and get into something presentable. He wondered if he should wear his older and more fitting, but more battered, clothes or the newer but much larger ones. If his cousin kept growing at the alarming rate he did these days, soon Harry would be able to cut into two pieces any future hand-me-downs he got.

Minutes later, Harry came down the stairs to find Uncle Vernon pacing from right to left in the living room. He wore one of the nicer — if not the nicest — of his suits , looking absorbed in thoughts as deep as they were disturbing, judging by the shades of red his face kept shifting into. As soon as he saw Harry he made a beeline for the boy, took him by his shoulder, and pulled him aside.

"Look here, boy," he started, "I want you on your best behaviour, do you understand me?" Harry nodded. "You are to speak only when spoken to and make absolutely — absolutely! — no questions, got that? And no funny business either! Also, refuse whatever offer these people make to you; they're not the right sort and should not be trusted."

But Harry was not of the right sort either, if he were to believe his uncle. "Yes, Uncle Vernon," he lied. No way he would just shut his trap, not when he had the answer to the mysterious letters so close at hand.

Aunt Petunia and Dudley joined them in the living room. His aunt also wore one of her more elegant dresses, one of those that looked like it came with a matching extravagant hat old ladies wore on Sunday mornings at the church. If it really did, she chose not to put it on. Dudley wore his Smeltings uniform — seeing as it was the poshest outfit he owned at the moment.

Did they want to impress the guest or intimidate them? Suddenly, he didn't feel as self-conscious about his baggy clothes.

Soon enough the doorbell started to ring. His uncle and aunt shared a nervous look and rose together to answer the door. Vernon straightened his suit, stuffed his chest, and opened it.

On the other side stood a tall, rather severe-looking woman. She kept her dark hair drawn in a tight bun and wore a very conservative (and outdated) high buttoned shirt and a long skirt, both of deep emerald colour. She carried a small woman's bag, and square glasses rested on her nose, completing the look of a non-nonsense school matron.

"Good afternoon," the woman said in a strict voice, " Mr and Mrs Dursley, I presume?"

Uncle Vernon seemed to struggle a bit to find his voice, "Yes. Are you the McGonagall one?"

The woman narrowed her eyes. "Professor Minerva McGonagall — your wife and I talked over the phone." Harry noticed she spoke with a hint of a Scottish accent, like that of someone who lived years without interacting with other scots. She stared straight at the door line on the floor separating the inside of the house and the outdoors.

The Dursleys seemed to find their manners because they made way for her entrance then. Once she got inside Aunt Petunia lost no time in closing the door, and the three made their way to the living room, the professor's heels tapping on the wooden floor. Harry and Dudley, who had been spying from the corridor ran back to their assigned seats, each trying to trip the other on the way.

The group found them seated and behaved on the couch. Uncle Vernon sat on the important people's armchair and Aunt Petunia joined Harry and Dudley, while the professor took the opposite loveseat for herself.

"Again, I am Professor Minerva McGonagall," she said. "Thank you for agreeing to receive me in your home."

Harry doubted his relatives had any choice in the matter; they were being uncharacteristically rude, for they would have never sat down without Aunt Petunia making a trip to the kitchen to retrieve at least a tray of cookies or cake — it was the proper, normal thing to do in such cases, and God forbid his relatives were to be anything but normal in any situation.

But if the lack of tea and biscuits bothered the woman at all, she didn't show; instead, she turned to Harry, "And you are Harry Potter?" he nodded wildly, "Nice to meet you, Mr Potter. I did have the pleasure of teaching both of your parents and I must you say you look remarkably like your father."

His eyes widened at that. Harry had never seen a picture of his parents. According to the Dursleys, they had been dumb, pleasure-seeking vagrants who went on and got themselves killed in a careless car crash, leaving their orphaned son to burden honest, hard-working folk. He was about to ask more about them before the professor continued.

"I lecture at one of Britain's finest institutions, Mr Potter, and — like your parents before you — you were found to possess the extraordinary qualities we at Hogwarts seek in our students."

"But I don't have any extraordinary qualities," he said, confused. He caught Uncle Vernon throwing him an icy glare through his narrowed eyelids, but ignored him and focused on the professor.

"Tell me, has anything unusual happened around you before, Mr Potter? Things you couldn't quite explain?" Harry opened his mouth to deny but found himself closing it again. Thinking back on it, what happened at the zoo with the Brazilian boa weeks before was just one of many episodes involving Harry around inexplicable events — including the infamous regrow of his hair every time his relatives tried to get him a 'normal' haircut. Aunt Petunia beat him to answering the woman this time.

"He doesn't have it," she breathed, "nothing weird ever happened. He's not like L-Lily. He's like us, completely normal."

Professor McGonagall eyes narrowed a millimetre as she turned to her, "Nonsense. The Ministry has registered no less than twenty occurrences in the last eight years in this area. Unless you're telling me your son —" she looked at Dudley, who appeared lost but was making an effort not to show it, " — is the one we are looking for, I'm inclined to believe no mistake has been made."

That silenced Aunt Petunia, but was just enough for Uncle Vernon, who stood and started, "My Dudley is not one of your lot! You will not accuse him of — of this freakishness! And the boy is not going! We'll beat it out of him if we have to! We agreed to have you here to stop the madness with the post! But that's it! He's not going and that's final, you can leave now!"

Everyone in the room watched in silence. The professor didn't move. She waited for Vernon to finish and very calmly, very slowly, she said, "Mr Dursley. You are sorely mistaken if you believe me to be here seeking your permission. Harry Potter is going to Hogwarts whether you approve of it or not. It's his birthright as a subject of the king and one of our kind."

"What do you mean your kind?" asked Harry, not able to stop himself.

But Uncle Vernon had just begun, "WELL I'M NOT PAYING FOR ANYTHING SO HOW IS HE GOING YEH?" he yelled, quickly approaching beet status.

Harry could tell the woman professor was too reaching the limit of her patience as well, if the severe thinning of her lips was any indication. Nevertheless, she still kept her cool when she spoke again, "You need not worry about that. If Harry's parents were unable to leave a trust-fund for him, the Crown shall provide its usual scholarship for orphans and unfortunate children." She turned to Harry and continued on a much gentler tone, "By our kind, I mean the people who can do the extraordinary things you can do — people like me and your parents. Mr Potter, you are a wizard."

The very word seemed to affect the room. Dudley and Harry went wide-eyed, while Aunt Petunia gasped in horror. Vernon started contorting, and if Harry didn't know any better he would say the man was about to have a stroke.

"GET OUT! GET OUT OF MY HOUSE! I FORBID YOU TO SAY A– UHMM" Uncle Vernon stopped in the middle of his rant when the armchair, which had been immobile right behind him, suddenly came to life, engulfed him in a hug and forced him to sit down again, one of its arms covering his mouth. Three things happened at the same time as that; one, the horrified shriek of Aunt Petunia, who pushed herself as hard as she could against her seat and away from the possessed chair; two, Dudley, who also shouted, but choose to jump over the couch and run inside the house; three, of course, Harry, who stared in disbelief, his mouth falling to the ground.

"Now that, I hope, we'll finally not have to suffer any interruptions, do you wish to ask me anything, Mr Potter?" Harry returned his gaze to the stern woman just in time to catch her putting away what looked like to be a wood stick. One side of her lips rose slightly.

"Me? A – a wizard?" gasped Harry.

"Exactly." She reached inside the small bag she carried and retrieved one of the envelops Harry saw so many times these past few days but had no chance of getting a good look at so far. She leaned over to Harry and delivered it in his hands.

It still read in emerald green letters 'Mr. H. Potter, The Smallest Bedroom, 4 Private Drive, Little Whinging, Surrey'. He pulled the envelop open and read the parchment:

HOGWARTS SCHOOL OF WITCHCRAFT AND WIZARDRY

Headmaster: SIR ALBUS DUMBLEDORE

(Order of Merlin, First Class, Grand Sorc., Kn. of The R. Table, Chf. Warlock, Supreme Mugwump, International Confed. of Wizards)

Dear Mr Potter,

We are pleased to inform you that you have been accepted at Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry. Please find enclosed a list of all necessary books and equipment.

Term begins on September 1. We await your owl by no later than July 31.

Yours sincerely,

Minerva McGonagall,

Deputy Headmistress

"You do not need to send any owls, as I have delivered your letter myself," McGonagall said.

Harry had one and a million questions in his mind. He agreed on the one at the forefront.

"So, if my parents were wizards — like me — how did they die in a car accident?" He asked, who could not fathom how magic-widening wizards die in such a common way.

The professor frowned and turned to his aunt, who despaired over her bound husband in her seat — worried for him but still afraid enough to not get any closer. When she noticed both of them looking at her she straightened her dress, trying to regain some composure.

"Care to explain, Mrs Dursley?" the Professor said. Aunt Petunia made a face before speaking.

"They didn't die in a _car crash_." She scoffed. "No, that was too normal for Lily Evans, wasn't it? Too ordinary. No, the Witch of The Family had to go run around with that terrible Potter boy doing God knows what, get herself blown up and just leave her responsibilities to other people like she always did, that — that selfish b — girl."

'Blown up?' Harry mouthed. The venom in his aunt's voice caught him by surprise; she had always refused to talk about her late sister and never had anything good to say about her and her husband, but still, he had never heard such malice coming from his aunt before. It made him wonder for the first time if she really, truly, hated his mother.

Aunt Petunia looked away and didn't say anything else, her face distraught. He turned to the professor.

"I'm sorry, Mr Potter, despite being their teacher I did not come to know them well in their later years." Harry's face fell at that, but she continued, "however, there's someone at Hogwarts I think might have the answers you seek, a friend of the family for many years to whom you ought to pay a visit. His name is Rubeus Hagrid; perhaps he can point you in the right direction."

Harry raised his head. Professor McGonagall was giving him the first smile that afternoon. There and then, he made his heart; he would definitely — definitely — go to Hogwarts. He would learn more about his parents no matter what.

"Mrs Dursley, there is a place in London Harry can get his supplies for the year. It's called the Diagon Alley — here is its address." She reached into her bag and pulled a piece of paper, putting it down on the short centre table. "I recommend you look for the Wizarding Bank once you get there, Mr Potter. It's not unusual for parents to set a trust-fund for their children in preparation for their school years. And if they didn't, tell the bank you will need the Crown's scholarship funds."

"Can — can you take me, professor?" Harry asked.

Her gaze softened at that. "Unfortunately, I can not. I'm already overstepping my duties as it is, having come talk to you. Usually, this task is reserved for the benefit of muggleborns — children with both non-magical parents, which we call muggles — and wizards or witches living in orphanages. Since you live with relatives who already know of magic, my coming here was a personal request from the headmaster, who was worried because no owls arrived with your answer. But don't worry, I'm sure your guardians won't return to neglect their duties regarding this matter." She set her eyes once again on Aunt Petunia, who wrinkled her nose in distaste, but otherwise said nothing.

"I must be going," McGonagall continued, rising to her feet. " Mr and Mrs Dursley, thank you for your hospitality." She retrieved the stick from her waist, and after a flick of her wrist the armchair released Uncle Vernon and returned to its original still state. Aunt Petunia hurried to her husband's side, fuzzing over him, unsure of what to do to help. Harry thought he looked fine enough though, if a bit out of breath. The professor turned to him one last time. "Pleasure meeting you, Mr Potter, please remember to get your supplies in advance. I expect to see you at Hogwarts on September 1st."

"Yes, Professor!" exclaimed Harry.

"One last thing: minors are not allowed to do magic outside of school, that means when you get your wand you must restrain yourself from practising the spells on your schoolbooks — there will be time for that at Hogwarts. Violating this rule can lead to grievous consequences, including expulsion and the breaking of your wand, understood?"

Harry gulped. McGonagall nodded and without another word she turned on her heels and saw herself out, leaving the horrified Dursleys and one amazed Harry behind.

Three days later found Harry in his room bored out of his mind. His relatives had refused to speak to him since the eventful visit, which made living together quite the awkward affair. He noticed Dudley kept throwing glances at him, dying to ask questions, but obviously forbidden from doing so by his parents. Also, he noted that the armchair was gone before the end of that day, which put his relatives' hate of anything abnormal in perspective because Uncle Vernon loved that armchair. It had been Italian.

A sudden, loud knock on the door made him jump, and Uncle Vernon's voice came through.

"Get ready, boy, I'm taking you to London," he growled.

"Why?"

"Don't be stupid! To get your dumb freakish things, why else," he snapped and left, judging by the heavy bangs going down the stairs.

Harry grinned to himself. It had worried him the Dursleys would still be too cross to agree to take him to buy his school supplies, but he guessed they were more afraid of what would happen if they didn't. Not that he wasn't prepared to go by himself if he had to — he managed to catch a glimpse of the address on the paper before Aunt Petunia yelled him upstairs back to the bedroom — but it was nice to not have the trouble.

Five minutes later, he stood ready downstairs waiting for his uncle. Didn't take long, he appeared in the corridor, gave Harry an once-over, produced a sound between a sigh and a snort, put on his hat, and went out the door. Harry followed him into the car.

Harry had never been to London before. He was excited to see a big city up close for the first time. His world consisted of the few streets between the Durleys's home and the elementary school he and Dudley frequented. He took in the sight of the skyscrapers and the busy streets, eyes wide and mouth open. While nowhere near the likes of Camelot and other court cities he saw every now and then on TV, London was still considered one of the bigger metropolis in the country.

The car stopped on a busy little street. Uncle Vernon shoved his big hand in his pocket and, with some difficulty, pulled a crumpled piece of paper from within. He squeezed his little pig eyes to read then threw it to Harry.

"Well, this is it. Out."

Harry left the car and was about to close the door when he noticed the older man wasn't doing the same.

"I'll come by again around six. Be here. I'm not waiting around for you."

"Wait — Uncle Vernon!" Harry called, but in vain; he was already pulling the car, the door — jerked from Harry's hand — closing by itself.

Now alone in the middle of London, he was less sure of himself than a minute ago. If he hand't witnessed one of the living room furniture assault his uncle with his own eyes he might even think this an elaborate prank at his expense. But he did and so he could not lose heart now because he would be going to a magical school and would learn more about his parents.

He straightened the paper in his hand. It read:

The Leaky Cauldron, Charing Cross Street, London

Harry looked around, trying to spot any shops that might appear to sell magic wands, cauldrons, spell books and the likes. Nothing looked the sort, however. Yet he remembered the professor mentioning something like a diagonal alley, so he tried looking into alleys sprouting from Charing Cross, but did not find anything. After going up and down the street a few times, he finally saw it.

A grubby, tiny pub nested between a bookshop and a record store. Over the door hung a sign, 'The Leaky Cauldron'. This is it, Harry thought. And it must have been, because people walked by without sparing a glance, sliding their eyes from one of its neighbouring stores to the other, without even noticing the dirty pub. Harry was almost certain he alone could see it.

He took a breath, steeled himself, and walked inside.

It was a very dark place, he noted at once; illuminated by candles and nothing else, the pub had no electric light. Very shoddy too, the tables arranged in a disorganized pattern — in fact, no pattern existed, people sat where they would. A number of heads turned when he came in, but soon lost interest and returned to what they had been doing.

He walked between the tables unsure of what to do. It helped that everyone wore some kind of weird tunic (wizard clothes?), so he guessed he was, at least, in the right place. But where to go from there? After a few minutes loitering, looking around, he went to ask for information. Naturally, being a boy, he hated doing that but saw no other alternative. He grimaced, wishing professor McGonagall had been more helpful.

He spotted a woman sitting at a table not far from him, stirring her tea while reading a newspaper. Olive skinned, ebony hair kept in a braided bun, and wearing deep purple vests, Harry thought she looked friendly enough. He approached her.

"Excuse me, ma'am." He waited for her to shift her gaze to him. "Do you know where I can get my Hogwarts supplies around here?"

He stood there as she scrutinized him through long eyelashes. At last, she spoke, "Muggleborn?"

"No — I mean, kinda — I mean, it's complicated," he tried to articulate. She smirked.

"And did you think of asking the bartender over there?" she looked somewhere behind Harry. He twisted and saw a bald man cleaning some glasses behind the balcony. Harry almost face-palmed.

"No," he said and sighed. "Thanks, ma'am, I guess I should have done that first. Sorry to bother you."

He turned and started to make his way to the balcony, but stopped as he heard a soft laugh and the woman's voice calling him.

"Come back here, kid." He walked back to her table. "That man can't help you."

"Why?"

"Because he doesn't sell anything other than food and drinks," she continued with an upturned smile. "What you're looking for is the Diagon Alley."

Oh, so that's how it was called. Unfortunately, that did not get him any closer to said destination.

"I don't know where that is. Could you show me, ma'am?" he said and then, realizing his rudeness, offered his hand and added, "I'm sorry, my name is Harry Potter."

She looked at him for a long moment with an indecipherable expression, deep red eyes piercing into his own. Just as Harry was getting uncomfortable and about to lower his hand, she grasped it with hers.

"Well met, Mr Potter. And yes, I would be delighted to," she said, smiling. "My name is Cecilia Quirrell. You're in luck, I also happen to be your Professor for Defense Against the Dark Arts for the year."


	2. A Very Diagonal Exchange

**Chapter Two: A Very Diagonal Exchange**

The woman – Professor Quirrell – rose from her seat and motioned for Harry to follow. He was about to mention the forgotten newspaper and half-drank tea, but in a moment they were gone, disappeared into thin air. He walked after her, a bit thrilled by having witnessed magic again, until she stopped before a trash can and tapped the brick-wall three times. The bricks trembled and wriggled, moving and rearranging themselves into a tall and wide archway. It opened the way to a strange cobbled street full of turns and twists.

Harry walked onto the street, his eyes sparkling. All over he saw shops full of the most amazing things: cauldrons stirring by themselves; brooms floating about his height from the ground; majestic owls kept inside huge golden cages; boxes opening to show much more drawers and pockets than their size could allow; and much, much more. He looked on like a boy who had wandered in a toy store at December the twenty-fourth.

"This," he heard Professor Quirrell speak from beside him. She had also stepped through the archway, which now had returned to the solid brick wall it had been before, "is Diagon Alley, London's wizardkind commercial centre."

"It's amazing..."

"Let me take a look at your letter," she said, extending a hand. He reached into one of his over-sized pockets, took it out and handed it to her.

"Hmm… yes, yes," she ran her eyes through the parchments, turning the pages. Finishing it, she turned to face him. "Did you bring any money?"

"Err." He felt his cheeks warm up.

"I assumed as much." She gave the letter back to him. "You'll need to go to WUBS first — that's the wizarding bank by the way — to take out money before you can buy anything on that list." Harry nodded, remembering how McGonagall mentioned a trust fund. "I suppose I have some time, I can show you around if you want."

It came to his mind then that he knew nothing of the woman standing in front of him, except that she proclaimed to be a Hogwarts Professor and her name was Cecilia Quirrell. However little the Dursleys bothered to teach him, they did warn of the dangers of accepting things from strangers and running off with them. But again he found himself without options — if not Quirrell, then someone else would have to tell him where everything was. And, to be fair, she already took him to the entrance in safety. She had that one over other strangers.

Shifting his weight on his legs, he made his mind to accept her offer. He would just need to avoid dark places and run for it if things got shady.

"Thanks, Professor, that would be great."

They made their way through the crowd of Diagon Alley, Harry wishing he could look at everything at once. So many wonderful things on display and so obviously magical, he had to reprimand himself for slowing them down to take a second look. There was one shop selling magic swords and weaponry. How cool was that?!

"Those are not on your school list, Mr Potter." The woman chuckled. Harry found himself liking the sound of it, despite himself. "Where are you from, if you don't mind me asking?"

He did mind though — the dangers of strangers once again coming to mind — but she had been nice so far, he didn't want to lie to her. He settled for being vague.

"Hmm, Surrey," he replied, looking away.

"Not much of a magic community there," she pondered, "you said you weren't muggle-born?"

"It's-"

"Complicated, I remember," she interjected, "you're living with muggle relatives then."

Harry stayed silent. She must have sensed he didn't want to talk about it because she changed the subject next.

"I remember the first time I came here; I was eleven. I was alone too, you know?"

"Really? Your parents let you?" he asked, but chastised himself immediately. She might be an orphan too for all he knew. When you go through these things yourself, you tend to be a tad more mindful of people's feelings.

"Yes, they were busy with an upcoming business trip. I wanted to go to the Infinity Tower in Camelot, but it is too far away, and we lived in London already; it was just convenient."

Harry did his best to look like he knew what the Infinity Tower was.

"But this is indeed your lucky day, Mr Potter," she said, smirking. She smirked a lot. "As it is, the, arguably, best wandmaker in the country resides in Diagon Alley, so at least you'll get the best possible wand for you. Point-in-fact, I got a new wand just today from h— Oh, we're here."

They stopped in front of an immense building. Concrete and iron merged in twisted ways until they met on a dome at the top. Through the many windows on the numerous floors, people could be seen going about their affairs. It reminded Harry somewhat of a cage.

Golden letters encrusted on black ceramic above the entrance read 'Wizards Union Bank System'.

"That's the bank," she spoke next to him, "let's go in."

"It's… impressive," he said, as they passed stern-faced wizards on dark vests standing each on either side of the door.

Inside, wizards and witches lined up before tidy rows of small desks. Up above, crystal chandeliers cast a soft yellow light on pieces of parchment flying over their heads, and below, minuscule black and white tiles made the ground into a giant chess-board that reflected their images with almost mirror-clarity. At the opposite end of the circular room, double stairs made of marble led to the next floor, and between them half a dozen large clocks showed different times and names: Camelot, Zion, Moscow, Paris, Innsmouth, and Hong Kong. Though there were no sofas or plush chairs in sight, the place had a faint, pleasant smell of new leather, and Harry wondered if it was somehow fabricated.

"It has to be," Professor Quirrell told him, as they set themselves in a line behind an elderly witch. "They don't want people to remember there are goblins with banks made of gold and dragons guarding their clients's money out there."

"Goblins?!" he exclaimed, then scolded himself. Professor Quirrell looked at him with a mischievous glint in her eyes. At that point Harry gave up; she had already seen through his facade and was probably aware he knew nothing of the wizarding world at all.

"Nasty, angry little creatures," she continued, "got expelled from the country a couple centuries ago. Led to a very short, very bloody war. The French jumped in, expelled theirs as well, and because people still needed a place to guard their gold we attempted a joint effort and created the first wizard run bank in the world."

Harry nodded along. "Bet the goblins weren't happy."

"You bet they weren't; still walk around with a wand up their arses to this day." Harry laughed at her dirty language, in that ugly way of someone who was let into a secret joke. She smirked back at him. "But that's boring stuff — don't tell Binns I said that — you'll hear all about it in History of Magic."

Harry didn't know who Binns was, but he had to disagree with Professor Quirrell. Any subject that involved globin wars couldn't be boring. Not possible.

"Good morning, how may I assist you?"

Their turn had arrived. Behind the desk sat a wizard on all black vest, slick, combed hair, groomed moustache and goatee, with the air of someone whose pass-time would involve taxes.

Black's the colour of the season around here, Harry thought.

Quirrell turned to him, prompting him to speak.

"Er – I need to see my safe. Make a withdraw, I mean," he said with the little confidence he could muster.

"Of course. Do you have your key?"

"N-No." He looked back at his companion. She shrugged back at him.

"That's alright, sir, I'll get you the form. What's your name?" The banker said in mechanical politeness.

"Harry Potter."

"Just a second, sir," the wizard rose from his chair and went to the cabinet behind him. He tapped it once with his wand, and a drawer came forth. A single file resided inside, "Hmm, how odd." Harry heard the man mutter to himself. He returned to them.

"Do you know any James Potter?" The man — Mr Richard Tomps, the desk plaque read — asked him.

"He was my father."

He took a page of paper from inside the file and handed it together with a quill — apparently, wizards wrote with quills — to Harry, though no ink. The header read 'Identification Confirmation Form'.

"Just write your name at the end of the page. It should glow once." Harry did as told. The back of his hand stung for a second, but it was gone just as fast. As the banker said, his name glowed red then went back to normal.

"Pleasure to meet you, Mr Potter. You shall be able to make your withdraw shortly, just let me check a few things," Tomps said, browsing the file.

Wriggling his hands, Harry waited beside Quirrell. His worry increasing as the wizard's scowled deeper and deeper at the contents.

"There seems to be a problem, Mr Potter," he said at last. "Your father's account is frozen — locked is a better term, actually. We are not allowed to effect any operations on it."

"What do you mean locked?" Harry was rattled, not unlike someone who had just been told his credit card had not been accepted. "How? Who locked it?"

"The Crown," Tomps said, looking unsure about himself. "I can't really say anything else. It's all marked as Classified."

"But isn't it my money too?" he looked between Quirrell and the banker, confused and trying to read their expressions. "Shouldn't I be allowed to use it?"

"I'm deeply sorry, Mr Potter, but my hands are tied, — " and to his credit, he did look sympathetic, " — you can ask to speak with the manager, but he would just tell you the same thing. Only by royal decree can this account be opened again."

Harry's head fell, eyes facing the ground and accepting defeat. He had been so close. Guess he could say goodbye to all the sweet things he wanted to buy in the Alley now.

He felt Professor Quirrell's hand on his shoulder, she gave him a reassuring squeeze before speaking to the wizard, "What about a trust fund? Did his father leave him any?"

Tomps scanned the document again, "Sorry, all I can say is that there was an initiation of the process to open one, but it was never completed."

Harry's luck had finally run out it seemed. He deflated like a cat whose dinner had just slid inside its hole.

"But the lad is going to Hogwarts this year, surely there is something you can do help," the professor pushed on.

"We also exchange muggle money," the banker said in a suggesting tone, eyes scanning up and down Harry's flanel and jeans.

Harry shook his head, thinking of his relatives. He would find no help there. But then he remembered what McGonagall said to an angry Uncle Vernon that afternoon days before. Yes, he was not out of hope just yet. His face came alive. A funny irony that the Crown, the source of his current prediction, would also be the solution.

"What about the Crown's scholarship funds? Professor McGonagall said it would be available," he told the banker, who watched him with a flat expression.

"You are correct, sir, I apologize for not mentioning it first. Please have a seat while I recover your application." He waved his wand, and two cushioned chairs appeared in front of Harry and Quirrell. They sat as the wizard left.

"I must commend you, Mr Potter," said the professor, after some contemplative silence. "That was cunning of you, mentioning Professor McGonagall. He wouldn't dare refuse you after that."

While being malicious hadn't been his intention, Harry did have some experience in trying to get what he wanted from people who would rather he didn't have any of it. He preferred to think of it as necessary and seldom dwelt his thoughts on the matter.

He muttered a thank you to the professor, to be polite. She threw him one of her piercing looks again, but said nothing more. They waited for Tomps.

He returned a few minutes later carrying some papers under his arms, put them down in from of Harry and handed him another quill and, this time, a bottle of ink.

"Please fill the form with your information, sir. Also, your signature is required here, here and here," he said, turning the pages and pointing to blank lines at the bottom.

Harry was stunned for a moment. School tests were the most official documents he had ever needed to sign before. He gave the Quirrell a quick anxious side glance, gathered his courage and begun to read the form. It was pretty straightforward, stating that he must not use the gifted money for any other purposes besides acquiring his school supplies and buying his ticket for the trip to the school. It also asked him to fill in basic information: parent's names, address and day of birth. Finishing it had Harry feeling a bit more confident about the whole ordeal, so he signed at the end of the pages, marvelling at the experience of tipping the quill in the ink.

"Thank you, Mr Potter." Tomps took the papers back, gave it a superficial read and put them away. He retrieved a small, thin, and square iron block from one of his drawers, tapped it with his wand and gave it to Harry. 'WUBS patrimony' was written under the bank's coat of arms — two parallel wands over a shield. "This card is linked to our accounts. You must hand it to the store owners before you make your purchase, and they will sell you the equipment in the price range allowed by your scholarship. Please return it here by the end of the day."

Harry nodded and tucked it away in one of his pockets.

"And this," he continued, putting a small bag in front of Harry, "is to buy your Hogwarts train ticket on Platform Nine and Three Quarters at King's Cross station, here in London. It contains the exact amount for this year's fare. I advise against expending it on anything else."

Harry took it too, prying inside to see a few of the same rectangular shaped copper things he had seen back over Quirrell's table. It had to be some kind of money, so he decided to get information on that now rather than later, when people didn't already know him to be a complete ignorant.

"What are those?" he said, happy when Professor Quirrell didn't snigger or something the like and ignored when the banker suppressed a sigh.

Tomps went for one of his pockets and brought three of the rectangular coins (what else could they be if not coins?) and passed them to Harry. The largest one, made of gold, had a crown encrusted on it; the medium sized one, made of silver, a wand; and the smallest coppery one, an owl. They all had the bank's name on them.

"The copper one is called a Parvos, it's the smallest unity. The silver one is a Caneo, it's worth a hundred parvos; most of your day-to-day expenses can be paid with them. The last one is called a Lingot, the most valuable and worth a hundred caneos. Any questions?" It was indeed very simple and worked much alike muggle money, so Harry shook his head. Tomps extended his hand and Harry returned them to him. "Can I help you with anything else?"

Sensing they were done there, Harry raised from his chair. Professor Quirrell did the same. "No, I think I'm alright now. Thanks for the help, Mr Tomps."

"It was my pleasure, Mr Potter. Have a good day and remember to return the card, please."

Minutes later found Harry and the Professor walking away from the bank and its oppressive feeling. Quirrell guided him to what she said would be the next logical location: a shop with moving mannequins dressed in all sorts of wizarding clothes ("They're called robes, Mr Potter"). Harry almost couldn't look away, his eyes following the dolls as they changed poses every few seconds and sometimes interacted with each other. The boutique was called Madam Malkin's Robes for All Occasions.

Madam Malkin received them herself. She was a stocky and short witch dressed all in a colour posh and self-important people would call Mauve. She rushed Harry inside and left the taller Professor to join a lost-looking couple at the front of the store.

Harry showed her the bank's card, and she made a face but accepted it without complaining. She put him on a footstool, slipped a robe over his head and began her work. Beside him, Harry saw, stood a girl around his age with long and very bushy brown hair and another witch working oh her uniform. Its fabric was nicer than what was being used for his, he noted.

"Hi, are you going to Hogwarts too?" Harry said. He believed obvious questions were the best way to start a conversation with someone you didn't know.

"Yes!" She replied, in a high and shrill voice. Now that he took a closer look, the girl was almost jumping on her feet. The witch working on her clothes kept sending reproachful looks at her. "I got my letter months ago! Professor McGonagall delivered it herself! Can you believe it?! I've wanted to come here so bad — it's all true, magic exists, I'm a witch!"

Her enthusiasm did put Harry off a little, but, in all honesty, he couldn't blame her. Not when he was still kind of astonished himself.

"She gave me mine too. A few days ago."

"You're muggleborn too?!" Her eyes widened.

"Not… exactly. It's complicated." He replied. She furrowed her brow at that.

"What do you mean?" she said, and Harry tried not sigh. He wondered if it'd be easier to just say 'yes' from then on and be done with it.

"My parents were wizards, but I live with my uncle and aunt, and they aren't," he said, hoping she wouldn't ask why. He didn't quite know the answer himself.

Fortunately, she seemed to have remembered something and dropped the subject.

"Wait, did you get your books yet?" she said, her eyes shining. "It was the first shop my parents and I went to — there are so many books, I wanted to buy dozens of them, but of course we couldn't, though we still got some extras that aren't in the list, there's this one, _Hogwarts a History_ , I'm just dying to get back home to really start reading..."

Harry didn't share her passion for books and he doubted the scholarship would allow him to buy anything that wasn't required by the school to begin with, so he could do little but give her a polite smile as she went on in a single breath.

"… and do you know why there's a lion, a serpent, a badger and an eagle on the shield? They are the four houses of Hogwarts — you know, like our normal school house system? — they're called Gryffindor for the lion, Slytherin for the snake, Hufflepuff for the badger and Ravenclaw for the, well, eagle. And Professor McGonagall said there's plenty of other clubs as well for extra-curricular activities. There's even a study group only for girls!"

Harry found it kinda funny (and a bit cute, if he was honest with himself) the way she raised her nose and shot him a mix of a satisfied and superior smile.

"Awesome! They must have a football club too, or even teams to play against each other!" he said with a grin, doing his best not to laugh when she rolled her eyes. Yes, she was one of those kids.

"Wizards don't play football, at least I don't think so," she explained, "they play this sport on flying brooms where they try to knock each other off."

"Sounds exciting," he said, knowing exactly what she would say next.

"Sounds stupid to me," she said, then snorted. Harry laughed this time, and she threw him an irritated look but then started to giggle.

"You're done, dear," Madam Malkin interrupted them, taking the robe off Harry. He went down the stool as the squat witch tapped the bank's metallic card and wrapped his uniform up in a package. She handed him both.

"See you at Hogwarts," the girl called with a big smile, sunshine on her large front teeth. "By the way, I'm Hermione Granger, nice to meet you."

"Harry Potter, nice to meet you too."

Shopping for the rest of his equipment didn't take long. As Harry was told, he was not allowed anything outside of his list, and the quality in which he got them was average at best. The exception being the owl he bought from the Emporium (Harry decided he wanted an owl, after some input from Quirrell): a beautiful bird with the colour of fresh snow, witch the owner noticed Harry took a special liking to and offered to charge from his card anyway. They were on their way to buy his wand when he thought about inquiring the professor about the school.

"What's Hogwarts like, Professor?" he started.

"Hmm," she rested her finger on her chin, "it's a castle, for one. I don't really know how many floors are there, but there are over a hundred staircases, and they all move around."

"The stairs move? How can anyone know how to get anywhere then?" he asked, bewildered.

"Well you — you know, why spoil the fun, you'll see it when you get there," she replied with a smile.

"And the houses?"

"Well... there are four."

Harry scowled. Was she being difficult on purpose or just plain lazy?

"Did you go to Hogwarts? What house were you in?" He pushed.

"Yup, I was in Slytherin — the scary one with the snake." She flashed him a full grin, and Harry rolled his eyes. "Relax, kid, you'll get to take it all in by yourself in September, it's not that far. And believe me, there's nothing like seeing Hogwarts for the first time."

Harry acquiesced. He didn't resent the professor, but he wished the bookstore could have let him get that Hogwarts a History book the girl Hermione Granger mentioned. The book was scary large, but there was still a whole month until he'd go to school, so he would have had time. He had his other books, but they were school books, probably not nearly as fun and wouldn't tell anything about Hogwarts.

He sighed, wishing he could go there already — that day if possible.

Ollivanders: Maker of Fine Wands Since 382 B.C was a narrow and shabby tiny shop by the end of the Alley. The single, dusty wand in the display window disappointed Harry. He had half expected mannequins doing tricks with the wands to attract clients.

"That's the last one," Professor Quirrell said, standing with him in front of the store. "I have an appointment about now, so I need to be moving on — you'll be fine on your own, won't you? Just walk up the street again to return to the Leaky Cauldron."

"Yes, Professor, thank you so much," Harry said.

"Take care, Mr Potter, I'll see you at Hogwarts." She smiled one last time and walked off.

Harry felt sad seeing her leave. She had been one of the nicer adults to ever speak to him, but he guessed he would see her again at school so he let it go.

He walked into the store, and the first thing he noticed was the deafening silence. So very different from the bustling street outside, it reminded him acutely of a library and he wondered if that had anything to do with magic.

He left the owl's cage and his packages by the feet of a long, thin three-footed chair.

"Hello," said the voice of an old man from behind the counter, emerging from the several shelves full of small boxes stocked up right to the ceiling.

"Hello," Harry answered back, "are you Mr Ollivander?"

"Why yes, I am," the old man said, crossing the balcony, "and who might you be?"

"Harry Potter, sir, nice to meet you."

"Harry Potter..." Mr Ollivander repeated slowly, tasting the name. His large blue eyes straining as if trying to recall it from his memory. "Are your parents James and Lily Potter?"

"Yes, they are!" Harry exclaimed, surprised to hear about them from the shop owner. "Did you know them, sir?!"

"I remember every wand I ever sold, Mr Potter," he inclined over Harry, scrutinizing him with unblinking eyes. "And your parents, like every other respectable wizard in Britain, got theirs here in this very shop. I hope it has served them well to their end."

"Do you know what happened to them?" Harry said, not containing his curiosity, hope expanding in his chest. In that way, he was very much like a reporter who had stumbled on a witness to a very interesting, first-page material murder case.

"No?" he said, and Harry understood he was waiting to be enlightened himself. His face fell.

"I don't know either, I thought you could tell me."

"Oh, I'm sorry to disappoint you then; years ago I learned of their passing, but the circumstances are still very much a mystery to me. Why, I didn't know they had produced any offspring until you told me your name a few seconds ago, Mr Potter." Being called an offspring might have upset Harry in any other situation, but he was too put out from running into another wall regarding his parents to take notice. It seemed his best bet still remained the Hagrid fellow at Hogwarts.

"That's an interesting scar you have there." Harry almost jumped when he looked up again. Mr Ollivander was so close their noses were almost touching. He took a step back. "Would you tell me how you got it?"

"I don't remember, it's been with me forever. My aunt told me I got it from the car acciden-" he stopped himself, remembering Aunt Petunia angrily telling him the crash was a lie.

"Car accident?" said the old man in a contemplative voice. He extended his long, white finger and touched Harry's forehead, on his scar, "Very intriguing. Are you sure about that, Mr Potter? Because if these old eyes don't deceive me, this scar was caused by magic. A wand's spell to be precise. Very intriguing indeed."

Harry didn't know what to think about that. Another mystery regarding his life before the Dursleys was not what he needed.

"Well, but you came here for your wand, didn't you? Of course, you did," Ollivander said, straightening himself up. He took a measuring tape out of his pocket, "which is your wand arm?"

"You mean dominant arm? I'm right-handed."

At once Ollivander began measuring Harry's body parts. From his arm, he moved to his torso, from the torso to the legs, from the legs to head and so on and so forth. At one point the tape continued on its own, measuring Harry's nose, while the wandmaker went back behind the counter and started picking boxes up and down from the shelves. They had no labels or tags, and his pickings obeyed no order Harry could identify.

"Which animal do you prefer: unicorns, dragons or phoenixes?" he called.

Harry mulled it over for a bit. Unicorns were girly so that was a no, phoenixes were cool with being immortal and all, but dragons… he used to dream of dragons, "Dragons, for sure."

Ollivander came back with a bunch of boxes, snatched the tape out of the air and settled them on the balcony. "Try this one, Mr Potter. Beechwood and dragon heartstring. Nine inches. Nice and flexible. Give it a wave."

Harry did so, feeling a bit silly. Ollivander took it back almost at once.

"This one now. Maple and phoenix feather. Seven inches. Whippy."

Again, he tried and just as fast the shop owner took it back.

"Here, ebony and unicorn hair, eight and a half inches. Springy."

Another failure. But that didn't seem to faze Mr Ollivander. He took one more and gave it to Harry.

"Aspen and dragon heartstring. Eleven inches. Slightly curved. That's a wand for the strong-minded."

Harry took the bone white wand and felt warm spread along his arm, he gave it a swish in the air, but as if the movement dissipated it, the feeling was gone. Ollivander hummed before taking the wand back.

"Not quite the right one; perhaps for a kindred soul, huh?" He winked.

And they moved for the next wand. And the next. And the next. They stayed at that for hours and hours. Harry's leg hurt after a while, prompting him to sit down. The mounting of boxes got higher and higher, some even falling to the ground, and at first, Ollivander only got more excited and happier with each tried wand, but after the first couple hours even he started to look bummed, and Harry just wished for it to end.

He got his wish after Mr Ollivander took the last wand, put it on the balcony and spun to face Harry with empty hands.

"Well, Mr Potter, I'm sad to say you got yourself in a bit of a pickle; it seems I don't have your wand in my store."

"What do you mean?" Harry said, eyeing the other million boxes behind the counter.

Mr Ollivander followed his sight and took a deep breath. "If I were to have my clients try every wand in my shop, I would hardly sell a single one, don't you think? No, that's not how it works. For the wand chooses the wizard, Mr Potter. If you're getting your first and can't find it here, it can only mean one thing."

"What?" Harry asked.

"You are already spoken for, of course," he said as if it was obvious.

Harry pondered that for a second, like a scholar trying to get around an annoying calculus requirement. "Can't I just get another? There must be people who lost their wand and needed a new one."

Mr Ollivander crossed his arms, looking upset. "No, you can not; I make an exception for those who already bought their first wand, but I do so grudgingly, I'll have you know. No wand will work as good for you as your first wand, Mr Potter, and I refuse to sell an imperfect wand to a first-timer. You'll have to look for yours in… other establishments."

A cold feeling settled on Harry's stomach. He had no idea where to find other wand shops. He remembered Professor Quirrell mentioning a tower in Camelot, but that city was so far away, there was no chance he could convince Uncle Vernon to take him there.

Sometime later, he sat with all his things outside the wand shop with no clue of what do. The movement on the street had slowed down, signalling the death of daytime. He regretted spending all those hours with the old wandmaker now — it was almost time for Uncle Vernon to pick him up, and the most crucial item on his list was missing.

He sighed, crestfallen, and started picking his things up; better to not miss his ride home for now and think later about this problem. Maybe someone at Hogwarts would give him a hand.

"Mr Potter?" he heard a voice call from above, "I didn't expect to find you still here."

Professor Quirrell stood on the edge of the sidewalk, one hand on her hips, and delicate eyebrow raised in question.

"Hi, Professor," Harry said. "I was just going back actually. How did your appointment go?"

"Could have gone better, I admit."

"Oh, sorry to hear that," Harry replied.

She must have noticed something was amiss, as a worried expression found its way to her face.

"Is something wrong?" she said, walking closer.

His eyes fell to the ground, and he sighed again. He guessed there was no harm in telling her.

"I couldn't buy a wand," he muttered. "Mr Ollivander said I was already chosen by some other wand out there and he wouldn't sell me an 'imperfect' one."

"Is that so?" he heard her whisper. He raised his head and saw she looking at him with that piercing gaze of hers.

Professor Quirrell lifted her hand. Light as feathers, her fingers parted his bangs to bring his scar into view. They traced the shape of the lightning-bolt scar, and his face flushed with heat at the contact, the same time a shiver went up his spine. It was an uncomfortable feeling; as if he swallowed an ice cube next to a campfire.

"That's an interesting scar, Mr Potter," she stated. The second person to do so that day.

"I was born with it," he answered, without being asked and without really knowing if he was right.

"I see." She finally retracted her hand, the intensity leaving her eyes. Harry breathed a little easier. "Ollivander can be eccentric and downright weird at times, but he is usually correct. No sense getting a sub-par wand when your match is looking for you."

"Does it happen often?"

"Not that I know of," she replied with a grin. "Never heard of it, to be honest."

Harry's face fell, and she tittered.

"No need to look so gloom, you will be quite fine." Quirrell said. "In fact..." She took her own wand out of her robes and gave it a twist with her fingers. "There's one more wand for you to try."

"But that's your wand, Professor."

"I just bought it today, it's not my first one," she said, extending the wooden stick to him.

"Are you sure?" Harry asked, feeling unsure himself. Ollivander had talked of wands as a very private and intimated possession of a wizard.

"Yes, just try it."

He reached for it, closing his fingers over the wood. A sudden warm travelled from his hand to his shoulder and soon enveloped his whole body. The wand seemed to vibrate in his grasp, and sparks of gold and red burst from the point like small explosions. He looked up to the Professor, who smiled at him.

"Well, well, Mr Potter, what a surprise," she said, not sounding surprised at all, "looks like I bought your wand. Holly and phoenix feather."

"How did you know?" Harry asked, puzzled and amazed.

"A hunch." She winked.

"Can I…?"

"Well, there's no helping it now, is there? I'm not about to separate a wand from its rightful master."

Harry nodded and rummaged through his pockets for the WUBS' metallic card to pay the professor, but she raised her hand, signalling him to stop.

"That won't work for me," she said. "Bureaucracy and all that."

"I don't have any other money," Harry said.

"It's alright," she said with a gleam in her eyes. "There are other ways you can repay me."

Harry didn't know what to make of that but he beamed at the professor and thanked her profoundly and repeatedly. She helped him with his packages, and together they made their way up Diagon Alley, talking excitedly about all the things in the wizarding world he had seen that day. They returned the card to the bank and left for the Cauldron. Harry only stopped thanking her when she threatened to take the wand back.

"Now this one is for real," she said when they left the Leaky Cauldron, walking onto streets of London, "I only want to see you again at Hogwarts, do you understand? If I walk through here again and find you looking like a lost puppy I shall be very cross."

"Got it!" Harry laughed, beaming when she joined him. He really liked the sound of her laughter. Or perhaps he just liked when someone laughed with him. There hadn't been much opportunity for that before in his life.

"See you, kid." She ruffled his hair, gave him a genuine smile and left, walking off into the crowd.

Uncle Vernon arrived a few minutes later. Harry kept his smile as the older man helped him load the supplies into the car, complaining every step of the way. The journey back to Surrey had him looking out the window, far away in thoughts of magic schools, wands, and Cecilia Quirrell.

 **A.N: Let me know what you think, your feedback is appreciated.**


	3. Of Lions and Chocolate

**Chapter Three: Of Lions and Chocolate**

The 1st of September took its time for Harry that year. Never having liked school that much, he relished the free time he got on summer vacation, even if that meant more chores around the house. But for once in his life, he looked forward to his return to school, although he wasn't returning so much as going for the first time. Time, of course, found out about this and did what it often does for people with those kinds of thoughts: it slowed down to a snail's pace. That left him with the bad part of the break, hacking away at the lawn, and every day telling himself he would open his school books.

Harry watched his relatives retreating back disappear into the crowd of people inside King Cross station. Groaning and moaning, they had agreed to take Harry to the station on the excuse of a compulsory visit to the physician. Harry was thankful and didn't comment at the time, choosing to count his blessings. He got there, and that's what mattered. He took his cart and went to look for Platform Nine and Three Quarters.

Minutes of unfruitful search later convinced him such platform didn't exist. He counted again and again, paying special attention to the platforms' number, but to no use. From nine it changed to ten – they did not count quarters at all. He stopped in front of the second to the last column before platform ten to gather his bearings. The nearest guard knew nothing of any Hogwarts, and there were no trains leaving at eleven o'clock at all.

He staggered for a few moments, anxiety raising its ugly face inside him. He was going to stay behind because he couldn't find the platform. He cursed, and not for the first time since his birthday, the vagueness of people regarding this whole situation. They just assumed he already knew most things – which was pretty dumb, he thought, given his background.

He wondered if this was some sort of test to prove his magical ability. But that also didn't make much sense, because – because he got the wand, didn't he? Shouldn't that be proof enough? An intellectual challenge then? Hogwarts was a school after all. But why go through all the trouble of contacting students and have them buy school equipment, just to turn away some of them because they failed an entrance test? No, exams should happen before all that. Besides, wouldn't most students be with their parents coming to the station? Surely they would tell the secret to their children, rendering the whole process useless.

One time, his relatives took him to a shopping centre, on which Harry ended up losing himself and could not find his way back to them. As horrible as they were, the Dursleys were his family, their house was his home, and so he had wept, thinking they had abandoned him. Alone in the station, that was the sort of despair that threatened to settle again inside Harry.

But before he actually began to lose it a group of people stopped behind him, talking loud enough he couldn't help but overhear their conversation.

"Now, now children, without making a fuss, we're already late as it is. That's the one, nine and three quarters."

It was quite a large gathering – two women, four boys and a little girl. Except for one of the adults, all the others had flaming red hair. The one who spoke, who he assumed was the mother of the kids, was a petite, slim woman with a kindly face, and elaborate curls falling over her shoulders. She wore an exquisite red dress that reminded Harry of the dames featured in the soap-operas Aunt Petunia liked to watch, the ones depicting older times. Were she taller she would be drawing much more attention, Harry couldn't help but think. The other woman, of black hair and dressed in a long and unadorned back dress, had the air of hired help. She pushed a trolley for the youngest son of the family, a tall, gangly boy with freckles.

"Seriously, mum, why didn't we come by floo? We took so long to get here I'm already tired..." The freckled boy protested, looking a cross between bored and annoyed.

"Because it's your first year, Ron, you need to know the station, and because it's tradition," the kindly woman said, fussing over one of the other boys's carts. Her son, Ron, opened his mouth to reply, but she continued before he could speak. "Now shush. There, you go first Percy."

The oldest boy, Percy, marched towards the column on a steady gait, but before Harry could see what the boy was going to do, a voice in the group caught his attention, and he snapped his head back.

"Mom, that boy is staring at us!" The little girl spoke out loud, pointing at him. She had red hair like her mother, but where the older woman had voluminous curls, the girl's locks fell straight down her back.

"Oh dear, going to Hogwarts too? First time?" The mother asked with sweet concern. Harry nodded. "It's alright, just like Ron here." She patted her son's head, which happened almost to reach her own. "Just watch Fred do it. Go on, Fred."

"I'm George, woman. Do you call yourself our mother?!" said one of the redhead twins.

"No, you're not – and yes, I am your mother," she replied and the boy rushed off laughing, pulling his brother with him. Harry watched them disappear as they, in turn, crossed the barrier as if it was made of thin air.

"Just walk up to the barrier, sweetie, and you'll be through before you know it," she patted his back. "It's okay to run if you're nervous, but not too fast or you'll crash into someone on the other side."

He began pushing his trolley towards the column. He had just watched the twin boys cross before his eyes, but couldn't help feeling a bit nervous and somewhat silly, just like every time he was about to do something related to magic. Harry gave the group one last apprehensive look. The kindly woman smiled on, urging him forward. He fell into a run and let the weight of the cart pull him into the wall, hoping he would not crash after all.

But there was no crash, and he found himself on a platform bustling with people, staring at a big red locomotive. He noticed their colourful robes, long, and in some cases very intricate, but much like the ones which people wore on Diagon Alley. Some, like the kindly woman's, were even more peculiar, reminding Harry of clothes folk used to wear at the start of the century. Parents with their children, students speaking to each other about their breaks and familiars running about freely, happy to be out of their cages. He ducked a passing owl flying too low and smiled when a girl raced after it, babbling apologies.

Everyone here is a wizard like me, Harry thought.

The family was coming behind him. He turned to the mother and thanked her.

"You're welcome, dear, now run along or you won't find yourself a good cabin."

Harry was about to do just that but remembered he had to buy his ticket. He looked around and saw a booth with a vendor a few feet away, a small queue in front of it. He waited in line with his trolley, handed the small pouch to the man and got back a ticket.

He navigated the sea of people, cats and other animals on the platform, searching for a compartment and peeking through their windows. He was late though – the clock hanging overhead had almost reached eleven o'clock –, and so most cabins were already full. The less crowded one he found by the end of the train; the freckled, lanky youngest son of the redheaded family sat alone in it.

"Is this place free?" he asked. The boy turned his head from the window and nodded. "Thanks" Harry mumbled, bringing his things inside the compartment. The redhead also possessed an owl, though his was as black as night where Hedwig was pale as snow.

The train sounded the whistle.

"Hi, I'm Harry Potter – thanks for the help back there," he said, sitting down across him.

"It's alright, the whole invisible wall thing is pretty obnoxious – I mean the muggleborns must get really confused on their-" he said, but stopped as if he suddenly took notice of what he was saying. He cleared his throat and continued. "I'm Ronald Gryffindor, by the way. Just call me Ron."

"Nice to meet you, Ron," Harry greeted back. "Wait, Gryffindor? Isn't that one of the four houses?"

"Hmm, yeah, this guy in our family helped build the school way back. They named one of the houses after him. It's not big deal," Ron said and turned his head to look out the window.

An uncomfortable silence settled in the compartment, while Harry searched for a way to strike a conversation. Softly, the train began to move.

"Your owl's beautiful, what's his name?" Ron asked, breaking the quietness.

"It's a she, actually. Her name is Hedwig. What about yours?"

"His name's Winfred. My uncle Fabian got him when he was this small –" Ron gestured a tiny space between his hands. "– but couldn't use him for long, so Winfred stayed in the family. Mom told me to take him to Hogwarts because there isn't much to do back home, with the other owls already taking care of the mail and all," said Ron, inserting his fingers inside the cage, where the owl gave it quick little pinches. "He likes me, so I guess it's better than getting a new one."

"I see, that's cool. I got mine from Diagon Alley. It's good she knows how to hunt because I didn't buy many treats. Can we let them out at Hogwarts?"

"I think so – my brothers said they leave theirs at the owlery, there's food for them there. Hey, did you go to Diagon Alley recently?" said Ron, leaning forward on his seat, for the first time looking interested in their conversation.

"Yeah, about a month ago."

"Just in time then – did you see the robbery?" Ron asked in a quick breath.

"No. What happened?"

Ron reclined back. "Someone broke into WUBS and tried to steal something. They failed, but it's been all over the news this month. The Prophet can't stop talking about it."

"What did they try to steal?" Harry asked.

"That's the thing, no one knows! It's been break-in after break-in in various banks across Europe this year. Supposedly, the guy tries to steal it, he fails, and they move the thing to another place, then he tries again! Or they move before he breaks in – no one really knows – but the goblins were going mad on the continent," Ron said. Harry thought the boy was glad for finding someone to tell the story to. "And they can't catch him either! The guy is like a super thief, not even Gringotts could keep him off!"

Harry didn't know what Gringotts was and just assumed it was the bank ran by goblins. He was starting to get annoyed at how everyone just expected him to know things beforehand.

"But he didn't get it either, did he? He can't be that great," Harry reasoned.

"Are you mad? Do you know how hard is it to even try and get inside those places?" he asked. Harry shook his head. "Very. The last guy who tried did it over a century ago, and it's said a dragon ate him. That's why everyone's going crazy about this. This one just keeps getting away."

Harry stared and decided not to comment. The boy looked ready to open up a fan club. He went on about the exploits of the mysterious thief, who managed to not only keep his freedom through it all but as well the secrecy of his identity. Harry listened with attention, hoping to absorb the maximum information he could about the wizarding world.

At one moment their door was slid back by an older, smiling woman pushing a food trolley.

"Anything off the cart, dears?" she said.

Harry had not thought of asking the Dursleys for money, for many reasons. The main one was that they wouldn't have given him any. But also because he didn't think he would need it at school. He was about to politely refuse, but Ron raised to his feet and bought a whole lot of candy of various formats and colours. The lady moved on, and he put his acquisitions on the seat next to him.

"Do you want anything?" he asked, already unwrapping some for himself.

"No, I'm alright." said Harry. "...that must have cost a lot."

"What? No – just a few wands." He was already opening his second sweet. "Try the chocolate frogs, they're amazing."

Harry nodded. It did look too much for the freckled boy alone. "Wands?"

"Oh you're muggleborn, right?" he eyed Harry. "Wands is how we call the silver coins, the ones with wands on them, y'know. Owls and crowns for the others."

"I'm not muggleborn," Harry said, going for one of the chocolate frogs. He was startled when it began to move on his hand, trying to break free.

"You aren't? Sorry, but you looked pretty lost on the platform. It's okay to be a muggleborn, y'know. Doesn't really make a difference," Ron said, chewing on his frog and looking down at the card that came with it. "Agrippa again," he mumbled.

"The truth is, I've lived with my relatives all my life, they're muggles. My parents are wizards, but I never met them," Harry replied. He looked down at his own card. It read 'Bellatrix Black', and bellow it was a picture of a beautiful pale witch with lustrous ebony hair, and haughty dark brown eyes. Looking at her outfit he felt his cheeks warm up – her dress went dangerously low around the chest. He looked back up and was startled once again when she winked at him.

He ought to get used to magical things.

"Really, why?"

"My parents died when I was a baby," Harry said.

Ron made a face and seemed to chastise himself in his mind. "I'm sorry."

"It's okay, I don't remember anything."

"So, hmm, who did you get?" said Ron, perhaps hoping to stir the conversation away from the gloomy topic.

"Bellatrix Black," Harry read, trying not to eye down her cleavage again.

"That's kinda rare. A good one to start your collection with. All chocolate frogs come with a picture of a famous wizard or witch – it's perfect if you want to learn more about our world."

Harry turned over the card. Behind it was written a brief description:

BELLATRIX BLACK

CURRENT MATRIARCH OF THE HOUSE OF BLACK

Bellatrix Black is believed by many to be the most talented witch to be born in Britain for generations. She holds the record of most consecutive Duelling World Championships titles, obtaining her seventh trophy after defeating the Hogwarts Professor Filius Flitwick in a breathtaking final. The youngest witch to ever succeed the head of house Black, she currently seats at Wizengamot. A famous quote from Bellatrix is 'Some problems can be solved with beauty, most with brains, but all, with power.'

Humble too, Harry thought.

"She's pretty awesome," he admitted to Ron, judging 'duelling' to be somewhat related to fighting.

"Mum doesn't like her. Dad told me they went to school together and never saw eye to eye," said Ron, absorbed in his colourful bean sweets. "He sees her pretty often at the Ministry and Wizengamot meetings, but she never gets invited to Christmas parties."

"What's the Wizengamot?" He tried to make the W sound capital.

"It's the… actually, I'm not sure." The freckled boy shrugged.

Minutes later Harry was surrounded by cards with famous faces on them and had tried about ten different flavours of beans, some of which he had never tasted before and couldn't quite place what they were.

"So, did you start on the school books?" he asked after awhile.

"No, you?" Ron replied, looking alarmed.

"A bit, but I didn't go far, it gets a tad boring after awhile." Harry smiled. It relieved him he wasn't the only one to be less than diligent about that.

"Yeah, I feel you, mate. Books get old fast. I got a Nimbus 2000 for my birthday this year and have been riding it almost every day in our old pitch," the boy said, "I'm hoping to land a position as a keeper in the house team, but you have to be really good at flying to get in as a firstie. There are some junior teams all over the country, and not even those guys are guaranteed to make it," he finished, face falling.

"But you got a pitch at home?" said Harry, eyebrow shooting up, and thinking about football fields.

"Yeah – it's pretty old though, this guy built it like five hundred years ago. We still got his portrait – the bloke's mad about Quidditch, doesn't shut up about it." He gave Harry a teasing smile when the other raised his brows, "Yup, portraits talk too."

"I don't know much about Quidditch," He admitted to Ron, just for him to start on a very excited explanation of the sport, the famous teams, leagues and players. He went on at great length about brooms and the best models. Harry wasn't surprised that his tentative friend's broom was the newest and fastest in the market.

They continued to chat and eat the candy Ron purchased. It felt nice to make a friend that Dudley would not sooner or later drive away. His cousin had taken great pleasure in threatening and frightening whoever tried to befriend Harry, leaving the boy friendless throughout their school years. Besides, Ron was a good bloke; although his family was obviously quite wealthy, he did not let it go to his head and talked with Harry as if they had met many times before.

Outside the window, green fields and pastures went by as the train took them deeper into the country and closer to the school. Soon the sky turned dark and the locomotive began to slow down. A voice echoed through the compartment:

"We will be reaching Hogwarts in five minutes time. Please leave your luggage on the train, it will be taken to the school separately."

On Ron's suggestion, the boys changed into their long and black school clothes. The train came to a stop sometime after that, and Harry followed Ron into the cold night, a sort of anxiety crawling inside him. He was finally there. He made it.

The platform in which they stepped onto was crowded with students from all years. Harry felt adrift beside Ron, not knowing what to do or where to go. A thunderous voice spoke above them:

"Firs' years! Firs' years over here!"

It belonged to a giant of a man looming over the edge of the stand, holding a bright lamp. If anyone asked, Harry would make a pretty safe bet the man was at least a couple times the size of his own eleven-year-old body and weighed at least ten times more.

"C'mon, follow me – any more firs' years? Mind yer step, now! Firs' years follow me!"

And so they did, in silence and feeling much like sheep crossing the valleys of the shadows of death, they followed him through a narrow path in a forest until they reached the edge of a big black lake.

In the distance, affixed atop a mountain, stood an immense castle, full of towers and sparkling windows. Overhead, a dark sky watched them with uncountable bright eyes. Like someone seeing for the first time the true masterpieces of the world, like Da Vinci's The Last Supper or Burne-Jones's The Last Sleep of Arthur in Avalon, Harry was without words. Hogwarts's form against the starry night sky aloft the stillness of the Blake Lake was one such masterpiece to him – a carefully painted picture of mystical beauty and elation. Professor Quirrell had been right, he had never seen anything like it.

"Stay pu' kids! I've go' ter get them boats, don' be going anywher' now!"

And the spell was broken. Murmurs ran through the mass of first years like burning powder, as they began to talk about the castle in strident voices. Harry looked over his shoulder to see Ron whispering to a dark-skinned boy. Choosing to just wait for their chaperone to be back, he looked around and spotted a bushy mane of brown hair a few students away. He smiled and walked towards her.

"Hey, Hemione," he greeted. The girl turned around to face him.

"Oh, hello, Harry, how are you?" said Hermione with a guarded expression.

"Good, you? How was your trip?"

"It was pleasant enough. Yours?" she said in the same tone. Harry couldn't help but think there was something wrong. The girl had been so much more cheerful back in the clothes store.

Harry opened his mouth to reply, but was interrupted by the man's loud voice:

"No more'n four to a boat!" the man had returned and was pointing to a group of small boats by the shore of the lake. Harry was inadvertently forced onto one of them with Hermione and another girl by the mass of students hurrying to board the little ships.

They slid in silence over the velvety surface of the lake. Letting his hand touch the waters, parting them just as the boats did, Harry took that time to investigate his surroundings. His gaze eventually strayed to the girl who had joined them over the mess at the shore.

Unlike most blondes he knew, whose hair colour was either dirty or awfully faded, her hair was vibrant gold, bright yellow and alive. Her pointy bangs fell over her face and back, cut in a smart way that looked at the same time tastefully sophisticated and criminally expensive. Her robes, he noted, were of impressive quality too. And although she looked very pale under the moonlight, her lime green eyes seemed to shine.

He took some time, he had to admit, in admiring the girl and was brought back as something touched upon the hand resting in the waters.

"Eek!"

He jumped on his seat, bumping on the nameless girl, startling everyone in the small boat and making it sway dangerously.

"Hey, watch it!" she exclaimed.

"S-Sorry – something touched me," he tried to explain. Inside, he told himself his voice was in thicker than it sounded aloud.

"What do you mean?" Hermione asked, inclining herself to examine the poor lake. Of course, nothing was amiss. "I don't see anything, Harry."

"Just get back to your seat," the other girl told him.

Harry acquiesced and sat down. He kept watch on the waters, anticipating any kind of movement, but lost interest after a few minutes, deciding he must have imagined it after all. Something he ought not to have done because he was even more spooked when something very like the end of a tentacle sprouted from the calm surface and curled onto his arm.

He shouted in fright, now jumping for real. In his haste to break free, he bumped again and with much more strength this time, onto the blonde girl, who had returned to ignore him and sat unsuspecting, looking the other way. She gave a high pitched scream and promptly and without any ceremony fell into the lake.

Harry watched her disappear beneath the dark mantle. In seconds the only ripples in the water were those made by the boat, slowly moving forward as if nothing ever happened.

He stood there stunned, his stomach sinking. Hermione stared mesmerized, with eyes as wide as his own.

"You knocked her over..." she said next to him, or perhaps a thousand leagues away.

Harry didn't answer. He couldn't find his voice. The bad feeling had turned to solid ice and enveloped his throat in a frosty coffin.

"She's going to drown! Harry, do something!" Hermione yelled, big eyes darting back to him.

But he couldn't, he was paralyzed, rooted to the spot; fear and dread had taken over his body. Acutely, he was very aware of the cold wind against the back of his neck, as they glided farther away from where the girl had fallen.


	4. The Good & Gracious Princess of Hogwarts

**AN: Credits for the amazing beta work to hapne24.**

* * *

 **Chapter Four: The Good and Gracious Princess of Hogwarts**

There was a girl down in the lake, for all he knew drowning at that exact moment, and all Harry could notice were the gasps of the other students, Hermione's shocked expression, the pinching cold wind of northern Scotland, the stars above who were sure to be watching with amused disinterest, and how death by drowning must be oh so very painful.

God rest her soul. Amen.

It was too bad he was paralyzed with fear. The girl could sure use some help now if he thought about it. But he was not really thinking, this was more like one of those moments you realize you messed up bad and your brain goes to have a chat with itself to ask what the hell was your problem. It made he wonder if-

Stop.

Stop that, Harry told himself, focus on the moment, you stupid, there's a girl dying here for God's sake. The boat hadn't moved that much, perhaps six to nine feet – it wasn't that far. There was still time. He tried to take a step and was glad to find out he could move again; his brief moment of insanity back there must have scared away whatever had taken hold of his body.

He unfastened his school cloak and let it fall to his feet. He eyed the lake and gulped down. It looked mighty cold, didn't it?

"Are you really going to jump in?" Hermione asked, mouth hanging open.

"You told me to do something, didn't you?" a Harry other than himself answered back.

He set one foot on the edge of the boat, took a deep breath and steeled his heart. Here goes nothing.

A giant tentacle burst from the lake next to them, it's great form making ripples that shook the boat to its base, on its grip trashing girl fighting for dear life. Harry fell onto his bum, gasping at the unbelievable sight, and Hermione gripped the wooden edges of the boat trying not to fall off. The tentacle laid the girl on top of Harry and disappeared again below the waters.

She fought in Harry's arms, drenching most of his uniform until he managed to calm her down. He placed her in her previous seat and watched her tremble and hug herself, a frightened look in her eyes. She was soaked. He put his cloak around her body, hoping to give her some warmth.

"Are you okay?" Hermione asked with concern. The girl didn't look okay in the slightest.

The girl seemed to regain her bearings, her eyes coming to focus, and her gaze turned into a hateful glare when they settled on Harry. She shoved him away, dropping him down a second time.

"Are you bloody stupid?!" she yelled. "I almost drowned ye arsehole!"

Harry flinched. "I-I'm sorry."

"You could not stay quiet on yer seat for a single moment, could you?! Didn't think about others, did you not? Think ye could knock someone down the bloody lake? No! I bet you don't even think at all, you stupid git!" Harry took the verbal assault with a wince. In the back of his mind, he noticed the girl had a faint Scottish accent, kind of like Professor McGonagall, that was making itself known through her rage.

"...jumping around like a headless chicken! You're some sort of stupid muggleborn, aren't ye?!" she went on. Harry saw Hermione stiff from the corner of his eyes.

"L-Look, I'm sorry, I didn't mean to knock you over, I wasn't paying attention," he said, hoping to end her rant. He could tell everyone else's gazes were on them, watching the heated exchange.

"Of course you weren't! Stay away from me!" she said, retreating to her seat, not noticing she clung his cloak to her body for dear warmth. Harry got up and joined Hermione at the front of the boat. She ported a hard expression and was making a point of looking at the approaching castle, away from them. Harry decided all his body parts had had their fun venturing outside the raft and were very happy to remain inside for the rest of the trip.

Their journey came to an end as they crossed a dark tunnel underneath the castle and reached an underground pier. They left the boat and stepped onto the solid rock of the castle. Harry was glad to leave the uncomfortable cramped space with the blonde damp girl but was met with the now much closer eyes of the other students, who watched him with awe and disbelief. He didn't understand why they were looking at him like that. It was an accident.

Of course, the giant man made a beeline for them as soon as they landed.

"Oi, wha' happened back there? You kids okay? Merlin, you're soaked, wait a sec," he said, looking at the girl. Struggling with his pocket, he took out his wand (being much smaller, it fit badly in his hand) and fumbled it about her. In a moment she was as dry as she had been before - if a bit of a dishevelled hair. The giant noticed Harry's state of clothing and waved his wand at him as well. A warmth travelled his body, and Harry saw he had been dried too. "There, there, everythin' good see, yeh chums behave now." He guffawed and gave a light pat on Harry's back that almost threw the boy into the lake and walked back to the front of the crowd.

The girl threw him one last dirty glare, took off his cloak and hurled it at his face, before stomping off. Harry sighed and donned the robe again, and they followed the giant through the rock tunnel.

"I'm sorry, Harry, I should have warned you about the giant squid. It's in _Hogwarts a History_ , and I just forgot about it," Hermione said and offered an apologetic smile, walking shoulder to shoulder with him.

"It's okay, Hermione – she was right, it was my fault."

From the back of the group he saw Ron walking up to them. "Blimey, Harry," he said, "did you just throw Daphne Greengrass in the Black Lake?"

"I didn't throw anyone," he groaned. "It was an accident. I bumped into her and she fell down, that's all, I didn't mean it."

"She must hate you now, mate," Ron said, laughing. "Her hair looks like chaff."

Harry sighed again. "It's not that bad… who is she, by the way? Did you know her before Hogwarts?"

"Well, I've seen her here and there at parties and stuff, but never talked to her. Her mother is the Duchess of Orkney – one of the last duchies to stay with magicals, y'know – so yeah, they're pretty famous," said Ron. Did Harry just piss off a noble on his first day? "And besides that, some people used to say they're descendants of Mordred, and the rightful heirs to the throne. She's like royalty, mate."

"Excuse me, are you saying you believe that stupid story that Mordred was King Arthur's illegitimate son?" Hermione interjected, narrowing her eyes at the boy.

Ron raised his hands in self-defence. "Hey, I'm not saying I believe anything okay – but enough people must do to fight all these wars over it, don't you think? Who are you anyway?"

"Hermione Granger."

"Ronald Gryffindor. Just call me Ron." He offered his hand and Hermione reluctantly grasped it. If she was surprised by his surname she didn't comment on it.

They had reached a set of stairs before a big oak door, and the giant wizard checked on them again and racked the wood three times. Out came Professor McGonagall with her stern face.

"The firs' years, Professor McGonagall."

"Thank you, Professor Hagrid. I will take it from here," she said, and the man walked past her, to disappear into the castle. So that was Hagrid, thought Harry, good thing he was hard to forget.

They followed McGonagall into an enormous corridor. The ceiling so high that the light from the torches hanging on the walls did not reach them, and long tapestries bearing the Hogwarts's coat of arms fell down like waterfalls sprouting from the darkness. The professor explained what they should expect about their life at Hogwarts, including a brief introduction to the houses and some sort of point system. She told them the sorting ceremony would start in a moment and asked them to wait in front of another huge door while she got everything ready. Alone among cold suits of armour and shadows as dark as night, they huddled together without noticing.

To say they were standing around like sheep waiting for the slaughter would be an overreaching metaphor – they just felt like that.

"Does _Hogwarts a History_ mention how we are sorted?" he asked Hermione, to break the silence.

Ron snorted.

"I doubt that," he said. Hermione glared at him.

"In fact, it doesn't. The book says it's tradition for it to be a surprise," she said, voice suggesting that was how things were supposed to be.

"Do you know how, Ron?" Harry asked the other boy.

"No, she's right, no one will tell us. Fred and George said we have to sing The Anthem in front of the whole school, but I think they were lying," he replied. Harry remembered those to be the twins who went ahead of him in platform Nine and Three Quarters. He hoped the boys weren't serious – he was horrible at singing and would die of embarrassment.

"It's probably a test, you know," Hermione said, seeming pleased with herself, "they'll have us answer questions to assert our magical knowledge and sort us into the house we deserve to get in."

Ron eyed the girl for a moment. "In what house do you want to be sorted?"

Hermione blushed, "Ravenclaw," but said without averting her gaze, as if daring him to challenge her on that.

"What about you, Harry?" Ron turned to him.

"I'm not sure," he replied. He didn't want to be rude to his new friend and say he wanted to be in Slytherin and not in the boy's namesake house. Ron had been nothing but nice, and it seemed fundamentally impolite to repay him like that.

Ron didn't comment, and they went back to waiting in silence for the Professor to return. Minutes later, she did, and they followed her into a gigantic hall. If Harry had been impressed at the entrance where they waited, the Great Hall baffled him. It held four immense tables where students sat wearing different coloured ties of green, blue, yellow and red; hundreds of candles hovered over them, and overhead the ceiling showed the night sky speckled with stars. A lone chair with an old hat stood in front of another long table by the end of the Hall, where professors sat facing the students.

Harry took notice of the giant Hagrid sitting next to a very old man in extravagant purple robes that clashed horribly with everything around him. They were talking animatedly and laughed often, like old friends. A couple feet left, next to a dark-haired man with a hooked nose, sat a familiar witch Harry had already met. As soon as his eyes found her, their eyes met, and she sent him a smile, together with a discreet wave of her fingers. Harry beamed and gave a small wave back, trying not to catch other people's attention.

The old hat started to sing a silly tune about the four houses and what each was supposed to represent. It relieved Harry to learn the hat would sort them, and they wouldn't have to take any tests. He never cared much about that stuff.

When it finished, Professor McGonagall stepped forward holding a parchment and announced in a loud voice:

"When I call your name, you will put on the hat and sit on the stool to be sorted. Abbott, Hannah!"

And so she went on calling names. The student tried the hat and in a few seconds - for some, it took a bit longer - it would shout out the house they were to be in, and the kid walked to a table under loud applause.

"Granger, Hermione!" the Professor called when her turn came. Hermione hurried to the stool and almost took the hat from the older woman's hand to rest it on her head.

"GRYFFINDOR!" the hat yelled. Hermione returned it to the Professor and walked to the Gryffindor table with a blush, but smiling brightly. Besides him, Ron tittered and shook his head. The next person to be called caught Harry's attention.

"Greengrass, Daphne!"

The blonde moved to the hat in a dignified gait, under the whispers of the whole student body. It brought into perspective how truly famous she was. Like royalty, he remembered Ron say. Even with dishevelled hair and wrinkled clothes, Harry could not disagree she carried herself with a presence worthy of a princess.

"SLYTHERIN!" shouted the hat, and she left to join her peers at the Slytherin table, which applauded louder than it had done for any student sorted so far.

"Gryffindor, Ronald!" McGonagall called, and Ron walked with sure steps to the stool to be sorted. The hat didn't take long to place him in his ancestors's house, and Ron joined Hermione and his brothers, who patted him enthusiastically on the back.

The only name to hold his attention for the rest of the sorting was one "Hufflepuff, Adamaris", a short girl with long dirty blond hair, who joined her namesake house and sat down next to a female teenager who looked very much like herself. It seemed Ron and his brothers were not the only ones whose family helped build the school.

Soon came his turn, and to say he was nervous would be an understatement.

"Potter, Harry!"

He walked to the hat, aware of all the eyes in the hall on him, all the while imagining all the sort of things that could go wrong. What if he wasn't cut to be in any of the houses? What if the school had made a mistake and he wasn't magical after all? Being sent back to the Dursleys' seemed a very real possibility that moment, and he searched the professors's table again for familiar red eyes. She was watching him and, when she caught his eyes, gave him the briefest of nods. Harry breathed deep and put on the hat. It fit loosely and fell to his nose.

"Hmm, what do we have here?" the hat said, loud enough for him alone to hear. "A lot of qualities, for sure. Can be cunning if you want... and devious too, no doubt about that. Maybe I ought to place you in Slytherin." Harry found himself not disagreeing with the hat, the image of a proud Professor Quirrell forming in his mind. "But very loyal, I'd say. And not a small amount of fairness in here – yours is a soul that seeks justice; you would find your equals in Hufflepuff. Smart, but not one for books are you? No, you're more of a hands-on guy – you would be wasted in Ravenclaw. Slytherin and Hufflepuff. Tell me, Harry Potter, from these two which one do you want?"

That took Harry aback; he didn't think the hat would ask them which house they wanted. It was a very big decision, and he found himself afraid to answer, but the thought of Professor Quirrell again gave him courage, and he pushed through the fear. "Slytherin, I think."

"Slytherin hmm..." the hat pondered. "Slytherin can make you great, that's true. Would you like that - to be great?"

"I guess," he said. Everyone wanted to be great, didn't they?

"Most do," the sorting hat replied, "yet few are. After all, it's much easier to be feared. Would you like that? Be feared? Slytherin can make you that too."

Images of fearful nights locked in a cupboard, afraid his uncle might forget he existed and leave him there to rot came to Harry's mind. Fear was not one of his favourite emotions. He didn't want to become another Uncle Vernon.

"I thought so," the hat continued. "Tell me, Harry Potter, why did you jump into the lake to save the girl?"

Harry blinked in the darkness, "You mean why I didn't jump?"

"No. I meant, why did you jump?"

"But I didn't, the squid saved her, not me."

"You were prepared to do that the very next moment, had filled your lungs with air and even taken off the piece of cloth that would slow you down. So tell me, why?"

"Because she was going to drown," Harry replied, not understanding where the hat was going with the subject.

"Do you know how to swim?" it asked cockily.

"No," he acquiesced.

"Then, why would you jump to save her?"

Harry thought it over. The hat was right. Had he followed Daphne Greengrass into the Black Lake's waters, and if the squid didn't exist, he would have most likely drowned with her. There was no reason at all to jump if he didn't know how to swim. Then why – why had he been ready to do it in order to try and save someone?

"I don't know," he admitted at last.

"Well, Harry Potter, I say we found your fundamental question. You must seek the answer for yourself, and there's no better place for you to start looking than – GRYFFINDOR!"

His new house-mates welcomed him with polite applause as Harry walked to their table on shaky legs. He saw Ron waving him over and joined the boy, sitting across Hermione. They watched the rest of the sorting together, the last to be sorted was one "Zabini, Blaise!", who went to Slytherin.

Next, the colour-blind old man in purple shock (as Harry named the colour of his robes, for surely that was its intent) got up and addressed the whole hall, "Welcome, welcome to a new year at Hogwarts! Before we begin our banquet, I would like to say a few words, and here they are: Nitwit! Blubber! Oddment! Tweak! Thank you!"

He sat down, and everyone clapped and cheered.

"That guy's barmy!" he said to no one in particular over the noise of the hall.

"Barmy?! That is the headmaster, Sir Albus Dumbledore. He is brilliant!" replied one of Ron's older brothers - Percy, if he remembered it well, "he is one of Knights of the Round Table, Sir Percival – even muggles know of him, you ought to show more respect, Potter."

Before he could apologize, Ron snorted beside him, "Please, the Knights are in shambles, there are what now, twenty-something? There hasn't been a Lancelot for centuries, and most are muggles too. You only suck up to him because of your name."

Harry recalled his knowledge of history to try to keep up with the conversation. He remembered how the Round Table had been an order of knights established by the famous King Arthur in the sixth century and only survived during his reign. They were brought back centuries later to act as ruling body along with the king, as an early form of democracy. Later, with the advent of true democracy, the order became a place to honour for exceptional knights who had made great contributions to the country, but with close to no political powers. Knights who were welcomed into the order by the king received a name from one of Arthur's original table.

"Percy is right, Ron," said Hermione, who seemed to have been introduced to them all and was on fast familiar terms, "the Knights of the Round Table are an old and prestigious order and should be shown due respect."

"I wouldn't get my hopes up, you know; they don't accept girls," retorted Ron. Hermione glared at him, scoffed, and turned away to talk with a girl to her right.

"That was mean, Ron," Harry said.

Ron didn't reply, and they dug in the food that had appeared earlier after Dumbledore said his lunatic words. It was a banquet all right, with the most varied dishes he had ever seen. He ate a lot, thinking back how he never seemed to eat as much he would have liked with the Dursleys's, but there was no Dudley here and the sky was the limit, as the saying goes, or something like that.

Over the course of dinner, they were introduced to their other housemates who sat close-by: a plump boy by the name of Neville Longbottom; Dean Thomas, the dark-skinned kid Ron was whispering to earlier; and an Irish boy called Seamus Finnigan. They also met their house ghost, Nearly Headless Nick, who gave them a first-hand experience on what that exactly meant, told them he felt insulted at the nickname and spurred them on to win the house cup. He also gave them a brief introduction to the other houses' ghosts: the Fat Friar for Hufflepuff, the Astute Astrologist for Ravenclaw and the Bloody Baron for Slytherin. At the mention of the creepy ghost, Harry levelled his gaze at his house table just to meet, by coincidence, Daphne Greengrass' eyes. She glared at him, and he looked away, unable to hold her gaze.

Later, during dessert, Harry found himself flanked on the sides by two older redheads, who pushed the other students (and their brother) away to sit next to him.

"So, you're Harry Potter," one of them said.

"The boy who threw Princess Greengrass into the lake," the other continued.

It seemed gossip travelled fast in Hogwarts. "I didn't throw anyone. It was an accident..."

"An accident to some."

"A declaration of war to others."

"Hey, leave him alone," Ron protested. "Harry, these are my brothers, Fred and George. Ignore them."

"Now, now, Ickle Ronniekins," said Fred, or George, "it's not nice to keep the celebrity only to yourself."

'Celebrity?' Harry mouthed.

"Didn't mother teach you to share your amazing findings?" Fred or George went on, waggling a finger on Ron's face. He tried to slap it away, but his brother was faster.

"And this one is a gem in the wild. Made an enemy of a princess on his first day. I'm almost jealous!" The other twin continued turning to Harry. "You're famous now Harry, if only for the fact that Greengrass is famous. Everyone's talking about the two of you."

"I don't want to be famous. It seems a bit stupid people are talking about that," Harry said.

"And maybe they won't be for long, but it's our policy to get to know the talked-about here at Hogwarts, especially if they're in our house and are friends with our cute little brother. Look for us in case you ever find yourself in the mood for a good prank or are an ardent fan of games." He winked at Harry and left with his brother, but not before tapping his back and almost making him fall face first on his food. Harry wished people would stop doing that.

"Is she really the daughter of Duchess of Orkney?" A voice spoke up as soon as they left. Hermione had turned and joined them agai. "Do you mean the Usurper was a wizard?"

"Yeah, Duke Greengrass was a wizard," explained Ron, after swallowing some treacle tarts. "Mordred was Morgause's son, remember? Their whole line is made of magical folk."

"I'm finding it hard to believe that story, Ron," said Hermione, furrowing her brow.

"You guys know that rumor right?" said Ron, lowering his voice. "About Queen Guinevere being Sir Lancelot's mistress, and King Arthur's sons being actually his?"

"That is baseless speculation, and crass," Hermione replied, wrinkling her nose. Harry remembered it being talked in school over a couple lessons, about how many historians argued over the centuries on the matter, basing their claim on scriptures and manuscripts from the period. Nothing was ever proven, however, and the Pendragons still sat on the throne of Britain.

"Maybe, but I told you, enough people believe to go to war over it. Last war was exactly about that, wasn't it? To reclaim the throne," Ron continued. Percy, who had been eavesdropping on their conversation, looked like he wanted to interject, but in the end, decided to keep eating his pudding.

"Wars aren't fought for stupid reasons like that," said Hermione. Harry had to agree with her; it seemed pretty stupid to fight over something you can't even prove. But then again, if you could prove it, was there any reason to fight in the first place?

Ron shrugged. "Might be stupid to you." He went back to his food and didn't say anything else.

"My gran said the war was horrible," said the shy Neville, who seemed to have heard their conversation. "Wizards and muggles k-killing each other in the open, she said a lot of good people were lost."

"Yeah, mum told me sometimes the rebels would try to level entire cities!" said Seamus, face lit up and with an impish grin. "That's why they had to put anti-apparition jinxes all over the country!"

"That was the dark wizards, wasn't it?" added Dean. "I heard the Usurper had this guy Voldemort working for him. That was a true dark wizard, killed hundreds of other wizards on his own."

At that Harry noticed Neville drop his head and retreat to his food.

"Yeah, the Usurper was a nasty business. It's good they done away with him," said Ron in the end.

Hermione, perhaps sensing the mood darkening, changed subjects and started a conversation about lessons and the magic they would learn.

As Harry enjoyed his dessert, his mind wandered back to the Greengrasses's and the civil war which had engulfed the country two decades earlier. The war had come to an end just a year after he was born – the cause, if he remembered his lessons, was the sudden murder of the Duke of Orkney, nicknamed the Usurper, who had been leading the rebels in an attempt to overthrow King Samwell Pendragon III as ruler of Britain. He looked over at Slytherin table again, to see Daphne talking to a brown haired girl, heads close together away from their peers. She didn't look back this time. He decided then and there even if they never came to see eye to eye, and she hated him for the rest of their schools' years, he would never mention the war or throw it to her face. After all, almost like him, she had lost one of her parents when she was a little more than a baby and grew up without knowing him. Harry didn't wish that on anyone.

At the end of the feast, Professor Dumbledore got up again and announced, with his ever cheerful voice, a bunch of warnings regarding a forbidden forest, forbidden items, and forbidden magic use in the corridors. He delivered a brief advertisement for the houses' Quidditch teams, when and to whom they should apply (one Madam Hooch). It was the last part however that perked Harry's ears.

"And, finally, please welcome our new Professor for Defence Against the Dark Arts, Cecilia Quirrell." The witch rose to greet the hall and gave them polite nods in response to their applause. Ron stared at Harry when he noticed his friend clapping just a bit louder than most. Dumbledore went on after the noise died. "Professor Quirrell is a very talented young witch who has agreed to share her expertise with us; I am sure you're off to a most fruitful year of learning.

"And last but not least," the old wizard continued, a mad twinkling in his eyes. "I must tell you that this year, the third-floor corridor on the right-hand side should be avoided by anyone who wishes to keep their wits and the integrity of their underpants."

There was loud laughter at that. Maybe Dumbledore's a bit barmy after all, chortled Harry to himself.

After that they sang the school anthem (Harry following as best he could – there was no way for him to know beforehand, was it?) and the students were hurried off to bed along with their chaperone prefects (in Gryffindor's case: Ron's brother Percy, it didn't please Harry to find out). He fell in love with the castle as they climbed to Gryffindor tower; moving staircases, talking and moving portraits, full sets of medieval armour, ghosts on and about their afterlives, and even the encounter with the annoying poltergeist Peeves was a new experience. Everything was so alive, so interesting, so… magical.

After passing through the portrait of the Fat Lady and being introduced to their Common Room, Harry and the boys arrived in their dormitory, a room with five four-posted beds hung with deep red, velvet curtains. All of them were too tired and full, so they just put on their pyjamas and fell onto the bed. Harry wished Ron goodnight and before he knew it he was asleep.

That night, he dreamed he sat in front of a huge mirror. With brushes soft as feathers, he treated his long silky black hair with utmost care. His fastidious red eyes, attentive to every detail of the task. Slowly and deliberately he blinked. He opened them again to stare at their vivid emerald green on the mirror, his delicate pale hand running the brush just as diligently through his deep crimson locks. He blinked again. This time he stood before a young man with greasy black hair and sallow skin, a hopeless and lost expression on the boy's face. Harry watched through red strands as the young man went on one knee - "Yes, my lord," the man said, and the dream was over.


	5. The Cave, The Shadow, and The Cup

**AN: Thank you to whoever left a review, followed, or added this story to their favourites so far. Let me know what you think, all feedback and criticism are very much appreciated. A special thanks to haphne24, who beta-read and helped me improve this chapter.**

* * *

 **Chapter Five: The Cave, The Shadow, and The Cup**

Harry hated reading and so, in consequence, he hated studying.

He grunted and turned another page of his Transfiguration textbook, next to him a forgotten match and a bunch of notes almost impossible to read. Ron disliked the lesson much as Harry, if his own grunts and angry scribes were any evidence – his match had disappeared somewhere on the other side of the classroom. Hermione Granger, however, was delighted in every sense of the word. Now that's someone who likes to read, Harry thought, remembering all the perfect textbook answers the girl had hurried to give Professor McGonagall. Her match was also the only one to have turned to metal, the desired outcome of that lesson's spell.

"At the end of the term, anyone who would like to submit a project is welcome to do so," announced the Professor in her strict voice. "This project will be counted towards your grade, and the best among them will be awarded a considerable sum of house points. Class dismissed."

And that was the way of most classes in Hogwarts – a lot of reading, taking notes, and listening to Hermione answer questions and earn points. As a matter of fact, and to Professor Quirrell's credit, History of Magic was dreadful. The ghost of Professor Binn's dry monologues seemed never-ending, and even that didn't take any steam from the bushy-haired girl, the only one who appeared to enjoy the lifeless (pun intended) lessons. Defence Against the Dark Arts and Potions were Harry's last hopes. The first lesson of the former would take place that afternoon, and Harry counted the minutes until it.

Before they made their way to the DADA's classroom, however, they agreed on checking out the clubs' board by the Entrance Hall door. Hermione refused to go with them, claiming she already knew which club she would join.

There were clubs of all sorts. 'The Dueling Club' ad was the biggest and most crowded over on the board, and depicted an animated picture of a wizard and a witch facing each other, waving their wands. 'The Archimedes' was Hogwarts's official school newspaper and also had a big ad. Many others, such as the succinct 'Hogwarts's book circle', the dark 'Potion Practitioners', and the eccentric and colourful 'Far Seers' filled the rest of the board and earned a fair bit of attention from the students. Harry was drawn to the modest 'Battle Magi' by the corner of the rectangle, which showed a simple but elegant drawing of a witch in medieval armour holding a sword across her body, though its description read it was no more than a fencing club.

The boys agreed on checking Duelling the next day after Potions and left for their next class.

They arrived in the classroom minutes later, to be greeted by an empty space, furnished only by a desk and a blackboard at the corner. Professor Quirrell sat behind the table, hair in her usual tight bun, not a strand out of place. She didn't smile when they came in.

"Welcome. Await the rest of your classmates; the lesson will begin on time," she said.

Harry and Ron let down their bags and stood by, not finding much to do besides waiting. Hermione and the others arrived not much later and were equally surprised by the lack of chairs. Hermione, in special, was bewildered she couldn't immediately open a textbook.

At the time the lesson was supposed to start, Professor Quirrell rose and walked to the front of them. The classroom door slammed shut.

"Hello, class, my name is Cecilia Quirrell, I'm your Defence Against the Dark Arts professor," she said. "I am a former Auror, here to teach you due to Headmaster Dumbledore's invitation. You will refer to me exclusively as Professor Quirrell, is that understood?"

There was a collective 'yes' from the class.

"You will arrive on time for this class. These doors close at the start of each lesson and will only open again at the end of it," she continued. "You will do your best not to hamper the class. Any unnecessary disturbances will be met with long hours of detention and appropriate deduction of house points, is that understood?"

Another round of a stiff yes. Harry wondered where the easy-going woman he met on Diagon Alley was.

"Very well. Let's begin," she said. Professor Quirrell took out her wand and materialized a sort of cushioned mannequin. "Attack is a conscious effort. It must be a deliberate decision from the attacker, in which he visualizes his victim and calculates the best way to inflict them harm. Defence is a reflex. A natural response from finding oneself in an unavoidable situation. It must come quickly and sure to you, following from your actions as water sliding down a stream. That defence will be what I will try to impart to your brain this year. But to defend, first you must learn how to attack.

"Your first spell will be the Knockback Jinx," she continued, pacing in front of the mannequin. "It's mainly used to physically repel your opponent, giving you time to act on more powerful forms of offence, if needed. _Flipendo_!" She flicked her wrist. There was a loud bang, and the dummy fell on its back. "Pair up with the person next to you and alternate on casting on one another. Yes, miss…?"

"Brown, Lavender Brown, Professor Quirrell," said a blonde Gryffindor behind them.

"What is your question, Ms Brown?" asked the professor.

"Won't we, you know, hurt each other like that?" said the girl. There was a murmur of agreement.

"The Knockback Jinx is a very mild spell, Miss Brown. At your age, if any of you manage to cast it correctly today, I guarantee you, your partner will feel a strong shove at best," Quirrell said and without waiting for a comeback from the worried Gryffindor she continued, addressing the class. "The incantation for it is Flipendo – say it loudly and as clear as you can."

She showed them the wand movements, and they started practising. The lesson went like that, with loud shouts of 'Flipendo!' and Professor Quirrell stopping by pairs to correct their form. In the end, Harry was proud to have been the first to get a bang out of his casting ("Five points to Gryffindor, Mr Potter."), and Ron told him he felt a wind against his chest. She asked them for a foot-long essay on the Knockback Jinx and dismissed the class.

"Would you stay behind for a minute, Mr Potter?" she said, as they were picking up their things to leave. Many students, Ron and Hermione included, threw him curious looks before going out the door.

"Yes, Professor?" he said, hoping he had not somehow gotten in trouble without even noticing.

Quirrell examined him for a few seconds, leaning and half-sitting onto the desk. "Red is a good colour on you." She relaxed into a smile. "How are you liking the castle? Have you counted the stairs yet?"

He scratched the back of his head. "Actually, Ron and I are still getting lost." Then smiled. "But it's amazing, Professor! All the paintings and ghosts and oh the armours!"

"Told you so," she grinned. "And the wand? Seemed to work well for you today."

"Yes, it's good, but I wished more classes were like yours, and we'd get to use it more."

"You will find the opportunity, I'm sure." She patted him on the shoulder. "Have you thought on a club yet?"

"Not yet. I think I'm gonna visit some of them."

"May I can recommend you duelling? It has been a favourite for a long time, especially for boys your age."

Harry tried not to wince; to tell the truth, he wasn't that excited for duelling. "Did you go to the duelling club, Professor?" He evaded.

"Hmm," she pondered. "Kind of?"

He thought she was about to grow vague again and took the opportunity to drop the subject. "I'll think about it then."

"Alright," she said, getting up from the desk. "Now off you go, I don't want you late for the next class and pinning it on me."

"Wouldn't dream of it, Professor." He laughed.

* * *

Friday rolled in and brought forth their last class for the week. It was double potions with Slytherin and would take place down in the dungeons. There had been a talk Professor Snape hated Gryffindors and would take points over every little mistake they made. Harry decided - if the rumour was true - to give his best and not let Snape take satisfaction from his slips.

He would find out his best was not enough. Not by a mile.

Snape's class started in a most unusual way. He walked in, cloak flapping behind, and began to read the roll call. Only, he did not do it in the usual alphabetical order but would call two names, from different positions in the alphabet and from different houses, and tell them to pair up.

"Longbottom and Goyle," Snape said. Both boys raised their arms and waited for the other to move his things over. When none did, Snape flared. "What are you waiting for, Longbottom?! One point from Gryffindor."

The boy shrieked and dragged his feet to Goyle's place. The call resumed. Granger and Parkinson, Thomas and Crabbe, Patil and Malfoy, Gryffindor and Davis, and Finnigan and Bulstrode. Before the last call – which, later, when Harry thought back on it, couldn't have been anything but intentional – Snape made a pause, and Harry could swear he saw the ghost of an ugly smile on his face.

"Potter and Greengrass."

Harry looked at the other side of the classroom. Daphne Greengrass watched him with a cold glare that anywhere would mean 'I'm not moving'. She remained silent when he settled next to her, eyes on the professor, looking annoyed with the arrangement. Behind them, her previous partner Tracey Davis rummaged through her potions kit and kept stealing glances at them, looking somewhat worried. By then, Snape was just reaching the end of his speech.

"...brew glory, even stop death – if you aren't as big a bunch of dunderheads as I usually have to teach."

Harry busied himself unloading his own potion ingredients on the table, and was caught by surprise when Snape called his name.

"Potter!" shouted Snape. "What would I get if I added powdered root of asphodels to an in an infusion of wormwood?"

He was taken aback. Like a deer in the headlights, his eyes went wide and his mind blanched; Hermione's – and to his surprise Ron's – hand raised into the air, coming to his rescue.

Snape ignored them. "Well, Potter? We don't have all day."

"I don't know, sir," he replied.

"Tut tut – let's try again. Potter, where would you look if I told you to find me a bezoar?"

Ron slowly - almost shyly - retracted his hand, but Hermione's just stretched higher.

"I don't know, sir," he said, and on his left, he heard Daphne snort on her hand to.

"Thought you wouldn't open a book before coming, eh, Potter?" Snape had an evil sneer on his lips. Harry held his gaze.

"What is the difference, Potter, between monkshood and wolfsbane?"

Harry clenched his jaw, pushing down the bout of anger rising raising from his gut. What was the point of this?

"Sir, they are the same plant and are also known by the name of aconite!" Hermione exclaimed in a single breath. As if in slow motion, Snape turned his head to face her, his sneer turning into a frown.

"Ms Granger," said Snape. "If you ever again speak out of turn in this class, I will see to it that would be your last in this school."

Hermione went ashen and seemed to shrink on her seat. Her partner, Pansy Parkinson, who already looked like she was sitting next to something she'd rather not cross on the streets, was appalled at the girl's outburst.

Snape threw one last contemptuous glance at Harry and began scribing on the blackboard the instructions for the potions they would be making.

"In this lesson, you will brew a potion to cure boils," he said. "Follow this information closely and, for your own good, don't take any shortcuts. Begin."

Harry set what they would need, and was ready to begin weighing the dried nettles when Daphne spoke.

"Don't touch anything – I'll arrange the ingredients," she said, not bothering to even look at him.

Harry, who had not yet cooled off from Snape's humiliation earlier, narrowed his eyes and almost snapped. "How am I supposed to learn anything then?"

"I don't care how - I don't want ye spoiling the potion with your clumsiness," she said, lips thin.

Harry drew a breath, trying to calm himself.

"I'm sorry about the lake, okay? It was my fault, and I apologize."

"I don't care, just shut up," she said, and Harry thought she was being completely immature. He didn't let it go this time though.

"No, let me do it," he said, stepping closer to her.

"I said no."

"Why?"

"Because you don't know anything and will make a mess."

"And you know everything, huh?"

"More than you!" she spat. "Ye're just an irritating muggle-born that someone was stupid enough to let come here."

"I'm not Muggle-born," said Harry. "And what if I was?! Hermione's muggle-born and she does alright."

She snorted again. "Yeah, right. If being annoying is alright with ye. It probably is."

"Shut up," Harry hissed.

"Is something wrong, Potter?" A voice said above them. It was Snape, looming over their seats. Harry thought about telling how Daphne was being stupid and didn't want to let him prepare the ingredients, but a look into Snape's cold black eyes told him he would find no friend there.

"No," he said.

"No, what?"

"No, _sir_ ," said Harry through clenched teeth.

Snape stared at him. "Five points from Gryffindor for disturbing the class, Potter. I advise you get started on your potion if you want to receive any grade."

He departed, and Harry noticed the whole class had been watching their little exchange. Dropping his gaze to the cauldron, he seethed in silence. He reckoned wrestling the ingredients from the blonde girl would just cause an even bigger scene, cost him more points, and possibly a detention.

After a minute he heard her sigh, and she pushed what looked small pointy beads to his side.

"Crush the snake fangs," she said.

And it went much like that. Snape stopping by from time to time to offer cruel remarks on Harry's performance, and Daphne moodily commenting on most things he did ("Idiot, twist clock-wise one more time before putting in the nettles."). At the very least their potion turned out okay, and not like Neville and Goyle's, which at one-point melt through their cauldron and seeped across the floor.

After the terrible potions lesson, Harry stomped his way to Gryffindor Tower room with Ron, who was giving a remarkable life-like impression of the brooding head of house Slytherin.

"I am obligated to notify you, potions projects shall be accepted by the end of the school year," Ron said in Snape's dragged out and eternally displeased voice. "Only one will receive awarding house points, but I may judge it fitting to deduct from any I find guilty of wasting my time with mediocrity. Some of you might think it wise to take that into consideration. _Urgh_! What a tosser!"

Harry might have agreed and offered an appreciative laugh to his friend if he had not remembered that exact moment he made the mistake of glancing at Daphne and witnessed her small, cruel smile aimed at him, clearly pleased with his treatment in Snape's hand.

At least he would have his meeting with Hagrid that afternoon. That was something to look forward to since he arrived at the castle, so it was not all bad, he supposed. He had asked Professor McGonagall the day before how he could contact the giant man to talk about his parents, and she had proceeded to tell him the best time to approach the intimate matter with the Professor would be his off hours on Friday afternoons, when they could talk without the fear of being interrupted by other students seeking guidance during office hours.

Professor Hagrid taught Care of Magical Creatures and was hailed a world-class expert on the subject, Harry had learnt, and was often busy. He had to back out of his agreement with Ron to visit Dueling Club and, although he did look a bit disappointed, the tall boy understood his urgency to meet the big wizard and let him go. Harry hoped Ron didn't think he made a habit of bailing on his friends.

Harry made his way down the castle and across the grounds. By the edge of the forest existed a small hut; made of bricks and a chaff roof, it looked tiny enough to make one doubt the immense man could fit inside.

He knocked three times on its wooden door and on the third it opened by itself, giving him entry into the house. Uncertain, he pushed the entrance further.

"Professor Hagrid?" he called, trying to warn the man he was going inside. No answer came, and he called again. "Professor Hagrid?"

As soon as he walked in, he had to stop and do a double-take. Inside, the hub was much larger than its outside appearance suggested. For one, the stone walls stretched so far high Harry doubted even the house's enormous owner would fail to jump his fingers to touch the ceiling. The living room was just as big if a bit messy; some utensils laid forgotten all around, and next to the fireplace stood a massive couch with a number of blankets tangled over it – where Harry imagined, Hagrid would very much like to sit down and enjoy a good book on.

He walked further inside the house and into the corridor leading to the other compartments. Hagrid's home had only one floor, and it didn't take long for him to identify all rooms. There was a kitchen with a wood burning stove and a small (for Hagrid's size) dining table. There was also a bedroom, with a simple, big bed and desk inside. A bathroom existed by the end of the corridor, containing what bathrooms usually contain anywhere, plus a very large bathtub Harry imaged himself could swim inside. The last door, though, was what caught Harry attention. It was placed by the very end of the house and hinged slightly open, light coming from inside.

Harry pushed it open, the door creaking on the act, and walked in ("Professor Hagrid?"), coming face to face with a long set of stairs going down. It didn't quite lead to a basement.

The stairs led to a clearing in a dense forest, its treetops so tall they cast great shadows over the sparse grass. Yes, shadows. Above him a very blue sky, complete with moving clouds and bright, shining sun. Harry looked back the way he came. The door, the stairs, and the walls of the house looked like a very out of place gash in reality, in a manner one would expect it to reject them at any moment.

Magic is amazing, he thought.

By the edge of the clearing, sitting on a stool and handling corn to a bunch of black birds, was a girl. She appeared just a bit older than Harry himself, perhaps two, three years at most. Wavy, dirty blonde hair flowed down her back, and a yellow tie identified her as a badger. Harry recognized her as the girl the one with the Hufflepuff surname joined at the table after she was sorted.

"Hi," he said, "is Professor Hagrid around?"

She didn't answer him at once but instead continued to feed the crows. Harry saw they had no eyes and little pointy teeth on their beaks.

At last, she spoke with a flat tone, "Professor Hagrid has left Hogwarts."

Harry blinked.

"Are you sure? Professor McGonagall told me I could find him here just yesterday," he said.

"He left today this morning. Professor Grubbly-Plank will be taking over his class."

"Did he say when he'd be back?"

"No," she replied.

She stood up, picked up a bucket resting by her side and walked off, giving no significance to Harry's presence.

Harry looked twice between the parting girl and the stairs whence he came. He went after her.

He followed her through the thick woodland. The vines were too dense, and he and the girl had to make a physical effort to push through. It was a moment when Harry could see nothing but deep green. When they emerged on the other side, the forest had changed to a mangrove, and they stood at the edge of a muddy river; even the sky had adapted to a thick cloudy.

"Do you know if he might come back soon? Maybe next month?" Harry said.

The Hufflepuff put the bucket down next to her legs, took out her wand and gave it a firm tap. At once, a bunch of big and very dead boars came out, flying from the bucket to hover over the slow-moving river. "Probably not, he left me a supply for the whole year to feed the animals."

Harry was about to reply when a giant crocodile burst from the river and snatched one of the boars from the air. More did the same after the first. Soon Harry watched in amazement as half a dozen of them levitated over the current as if they were swimming inside it.

"Wow, crocodiles fly?!" he said.

"They're called corkindrills," the girl answered.

"Aren't they dangerous?"

"Very."

"Why don't they attack you then?"

"Hagrid told them not to."

"What about me?"

"Should stay close."

By then the bucket had stopped regurgitating dead mammals, and the girl picked it up again and left for the vines. Harry trailed after her.

The next area was a vast pasture overlooking a mountain in the distance, the sky stretching forever above him. Harry was astonished at the immensity of the place.

"Where are we?" he asked, twisting on his feet. "Are we teleporting around? One place to another?"

"Teleporting?" she said, looking back at him for the first time. "We're in Hagrid's basement. This - " she motioned to the mountain, " - is not real. It's an illusion created for the creatures."

Harry nodded. It was still pretty impressive.

They walked together for a bit until he sighted a group of horse-like creatures. Only, they had powerful wings, head and front legs of a giant eagle, but the body, hind legs, and tail of an actual horse. The girl raised an arm in front of him.

"Stay here," she warned. She walked a few steps towards the horse-eagles and, to Harry's surprise, bowed lowly, curtsying with her skirt. Even more astonishing was when, one by one, the creatures lowered their heads, looking in every way to be bowing back to her. Only then she approached and handed them the dead rabbits that existed now in the bucket.

"What are they called? Why did you bow?" Harry asked when she came back.

"Hippogriffs. They're extremely formal gentlemen that do not accept impoliteness in any form – their talons will rip you apart if you will fail to offer a proper greet."

Harry could not tell if she was joking but said nothing and decided not to challenge her on that. Those talons did look quite sharp.

The next area was a field full of rocks of all sizes. All of them had these holes, where small snakes rested tangled on each other. He was in a literal snake pit.

"So, do you know how I can contact Professor Hagrid?" he said, walking close to the Hufflepuff. Reptilian heads raised as they passed by. "There's something I have to ask him."

"I assure you whatever question you have for Professor Hagrid you can direct at Professor Grubbly-Plank. She holds office at Mondays and Wednesdays before lunch," said the blonde. They had been stopping every now and then before a nest to deposit what looked like chicken eggs. 'Thank you' the politer snakes said, and they moved on.

"It's kinda personal," he said.

"Then I'm sorry, you'll have to wait until he comes back."

She stopped in front of a particular large nest with a single snake laying down on it. Its head rested on a body many times coiled around itself, staring away at the sky, looking bored. The girl laid down a dozen or so eggs next to it; the snake glanced once at them, sighed and returned to watch the clouds.

The Hufflepuff girl sighed too.

"It doesn't eat," she said, dropping her head. "Hagrid thought it could be getting ready for some big game, but that wouldn't make sense. It hasn't even spread its wings yet."

Harry did not want to think of winged snakes, but the girl looked distraught in a way it was hard not sympathize. She walked away, and Harry staid to take a better look at the reptile.

"You okay?" He said, crouching in front of the nest. "Why aren't you eating?"

The snake began to weep.

"H-hey, you don't have to cry," he said eyes shifting around, unsure of what to do.

"You're mean, leave me alone! Why am I not eating?! Can't you sssee how fat I am?!" cried the snake, in a feminine, pubescent hissing voice. "I may just ass well be a whale!"

Harry raised an eyebrow and tittered at that. "I don't think you're fat."

The snake sniffed once and turned her head to him. "You're lying."

"No, I'm not. Actually, I think you're kinda cute," he said, smiling kindly at her. The snake's eyes widened.

"For real? You're not lying?" she said in a hopeful voice.

"Nope."

"You sswear?"

"Pinky swear," he said, "you should eat your food, everyone's getting worried."

The snake looked at the eggs again and tried one. She gulped it down and moved on to the others. Pretty soon no eggs were left. Harry could tell she had been starving. She uncoiled her body and rose to be at his level.

"I guesss I was being ssilly," she said, then tilted her head. "What'ss your name?"

"Harry Potter. Nice to meet you," he said.

"Hi, Harry, my name's Elain," she said, her voice taking on an odd tone, almost like a cat's purr. "You're kinda cute too, you know?"

His eyes eyebrow shot up and, against his better judgement, he felt his cheeks heat. "T-thanks, I guess..."

"Do you have a girlfriend?"

His mouth fell.

"What are you doing?" Came a voice behind him. He twisted to see the Hufflepuff had returned. "Did it eat the eggs?"

"Yep, she's good now," Harry said, straightening his body.

"Really? What did you do?" she said.

"Nothing," said Harry, he put the back of his hand in front of his mouth and whispered. "She's just a bit self-conscious of her weight."

She eyed Harry and frowned. "You're weird."

"Go away, cow!" Elain the snake snapped below them. "No one likesss your ugly ssacks of fat!"

"Well, whatever you did seems to have worked, so, thank you," said the girl, not giving any notice she had heard the snake. "My name is Bianca Hufflepuff."

Harry shook her hand. "Harry Potter. Nice to meet you."

"Let's go - just a couple more." She strolled off, and Harry followed after her. He turned one last time and waved goodbye at the snake.

"Owl me!" she called.

They went by a few more of the illusion habitats. There was one with a giant sloth, which the process of feeding took by far the longest time of all the creatures. Another one held a colony of bug-like creatures that made a weird buzz with their antennae and made him dizzy. And another - Harry's favourite that afternoon - held a giant three-headed dog called Fluffy that played with the girl like a newborn puppy.

Beside it that Harry didn't know the way back, he wasn't sure why he stayed with the teenager after he got his information about Hagrid; the Hufflepuff seldom spoke, and when she did it was in a dragged way that let him know she'd rather not do it at all. But she hadn't told him off and was nice enough to explain the creatures to him, so Harry had decided to keep following her.

They walked out of the vines to the last area, and the first thing Harry saw the darkness of the night. A wall of trees pressed close together on each side of him, forming a long hallway to what appeared to be the foot of a mountain. There were no lamps or torches to be seen, but everything shone silver from the light of full moon that seemed to take half the sky.

The silence of the place was deafening. No cicada cried in the bushes, no owl hooted in the woods; there was no sound but their soft footsteps smashing the dead leaves beneath them as they walked. And it was cold. It got colder as they moved further along the corridor of grass and dirt. There was no wind, but the cold didn't need any – it crawled out from deep inside him, chilling his bones and flowing through his body.

He looked at his hand and saw he was trembling.

"Why is it so cold?" he said to Bianca, and though he had done little more than whisper, his voice thundered and echoed around them.

"It's not cold," she replied, staring ahead. "Your body's just afraid."

"What do you mean?" Harry said. In the back of his mind, a slow and faint piano melody started to play. "D'you hear that?"

They reached the end of the hallway, where the trees opened to a half-circle around the great rock. In the middle, right in front of them and large enough for three people to walk inside with arms outstretched, was a hole. It was at least twice as tall as Hagrid, it gaped like a mouth waiting to shallow. The darkness inside was so thick it looked solid against the grey stone, a black void alive and licking against the edges of the cave.

"What's in there?" He asked and was surprised at how weak his voice sounded.

"It's a Cuco," answered Bianca, her voice stronger than his, but far from steady. "Hagrid found it somewhere in South America."

"Doesn't it eat children? My aunt told me so. Why does he have something like that?" said Harry, remembering his aunt's warnings against misbehaviour and monsters in the dark. Gentle voices of children began to sing in his mind:

 _There, there… there he goes..._

"It doesn't eat children, or humans, that is just a story. It induces fear as a way to protect itself," said the blond Hufflepuff, "This one is hurt, and Hagrid brought it back to heal."

Harry felt himself nod.

The voices grew louder.

His right arm shook so hard Harry grasped it with his left hand. Beneath him, his legs had turned to lead, and he couldn't move even if he wanted. He couldn't run away. Rows of bloodied pointy teeth flashed in his mind. Was that the Cuco? Was it coming to eat him? He had to escape. It was too cold and hard to breath. Oh, so hard to breath. He needed to, HE NEEDED TO-

A hand grasped hard on his shoulder, the pain and warm of the contact bringing him back to the reality. Over him, a worried Bianca stared back.

"Calm down, nothing's gonna happen to you," she said. "Breath, Harry."

He did and was glad to find much of the cold was gone; the creepy lullaby had stopped in his ears. He felt he could move again.

"Stay here," she said and started her way to the dark entrance.

"Wait!" He called. She stopped and turned to look at him. "Are you going inside?"

"Someone has to feed it," she said. He watched as she walked into the darkness, looking much like someone crossing the gate to the underworld. He saw her free hand clenching hard at the hem of her skirt.

Alone, he counted the seconds until her return, trying not to think maybe she had misunderstood Hagrid after all, and the Cuco was at that moment gnawing on her bones. It took some time, but she did emerge from the cave, not looking any different from how she went in. There was still no blood flowing through her face, and her hands shook by her sides, but she was safe and whole.

They walked in silence back the hallway to leave the area and finally return to the castle. Before they crossed the vines, Harry spoke up.

"How could you do it? Weren't you afraid?" he asked, eyes fixed on the ground. The shame of his cowardice turning his mood sour.

She took a few moments to answer. "Yes. But you can either control your fear-"

"-or let fear control you. I know," he finished, cutting her off.

They didn't talk after that and made their way out of Hagrid's house and into the castle, where they parted, each going his own direction.

The week went by fast, and between Herbology lessons, History of Magic, and the delightful DADA classes, the next Thursday arrived all too soon. Harry had been looking forward to it since he learned it would be when their first flying lesson would have taken place. To his displeasure, however, the class was cancelled the day before and postponed to next week due to Madame Hooch being called to referee an international match.

Harry walked down to the Great Hall that morning in a hurry, intending to eat his breakfast before everything disappeared. He had woken up a little late and found the first years, including Ron, had already left their tower. He sat down next to his friend, noticing most students holding a ream of sheets. Hermione, sitting across Ron, had her head sunk into the papers, her toasts forgotten.

"What're you guys reading?" he asked, filling his plate with eggs and sausages.

"The Archimedes came out this morning," said Neville, fidgeting with a tiny glass ball full of misty white smoke.

"The Hogwarts paper?" asked Harry.

"Yeah," Ron said, flipping pages. He had already finished his meal.

"Where can I get one?"

"Here, just take mine," Neville offered, extending a copy to him. He thanked the round-faced boy, but before he could open it Hermione threw hers at the table, in a rather uncharacteristic manner for her.

"This is garbage," she hissed.

They all raised their eyebrows at her.

"Did you read the last page?" said Ron.

"No," she said in her patented bossy voice, "it's impossible to get past the middle."

"You don't have to read it all, you know," said Ron.

"What's on the last page?" Harry interjected.

"Oh, it's the Shadow Mage column," Neville replied, then turned pink when their eyes turned to him, "Gran says it's the only thing worth reading in the Archimedes. I guess the paper is early because he sent something. It's supposed to be monthly."

"Well, I like it," said Ron, but then scowled, "wait, when did your gran come to Hogwarts?"

"About fifty years ago, I-I think."

Harry and a reluctant Hermione opened their copies. Reading it for the first time, Harry took awhile browsing through the dozen pages or so, eating his breakfast while at it.

Being a somewhat small closed community, Hogwarts was bound to not have too many exciting news to report, less so if a newspaper issue came out in two weeks from the start of the term. Harry could tell they tried. A few articles announced school rules and dates for tests, there were a couple interviews with club presidents, and even (Harry was glad to find) a short section regarding their DADA professor and her background as an Auror – something like a wizard policeman but not quite – and vampire hunter. However, shameless gossip-mongering filled more than half the pages of the journal. Many articles after page five talked exclusively about the summer break, who got together with whom, who broke their engagement, and speculated who was dating in secret. A huge section featured one Daphne Greengrass and the story of her family, though whoever wrote it was tactful enough to leave her father's tragedy and the war out of it. It even mentioned Harry, regarding the dreadful episode of the lake. Glad to be through it, he leaned forward when at last he got to the last page.

 _WHAT IS SIR PERCIVAL HIDING IN THE THIRD FLOOR?_

 _By your friendly neighbourhood, Shadow Mage_

 _If you ever want to crap yourself, please feel welcome to the third floor on the right-hand side of the castle. That will more like than not be your fate should you decide to challenge the warning our esteemed headmaster was so kind to give us that opening feast. Yours truly found all about it when he decided the words to be fishy enough to warrant a throughout investigation; though he swears nothing like excrement was ever involved in his adventures. Whatever resides in the closed room – it can be opened with a simple_ Alohomora _, mind you – will spook your hair out and get you running for your life faster than you can say_ Riddikulus _, which, beware, doesn't work if you happen to be thinking of a Boggart._

 _Whatever it is, be it an elaborate charms work or a rejected specimen from Professor Hagrid's lovely menagerie, it's there for a reason. More specifically to guard something. Now, before I so kindly spell it out for you, I want you to recall the series of break-ins that, for the last six months, have plagued the banks of Europe and instilled fear where it frightens us the most – our wallets. The last attempt happened right here in our beloved Britain, in the WUBS of Diagon Alley, London, but the first came to pass in Gringotts' own headquarters on the magical metropolis of Jerusalem, in the Middle East. Which, if you're one to make the mistake of ever reading the tabloid press, you'd know to be a place our good Sir Albus Dumbledore was visiting at the time. Did you figure it out what they were trying to steal? No? Go open a fifth-century myths book, I'll wait. What about now? Not yet? I will tell you:_

 _It's a little something called The Holy Grail._

 _Sir Percival has once again found The Holy Grail, ladies and gentlemen. And If you're somehow unfamiliar with the legend of the Grail, or was just in hurry to reach the end of this article and didn't open your myths book like I told you, I shall give a swift gestalt of what it entails._

 _Once upon a time, King Arthur gave the whole Round Table a quest to retrieve the Holy Grail to, reportedly, cleanse the souls of his knights and restore the holiness of the order. They went away for years to search the entire known world for the chalice. There are many adventures in this tale, more than a few in which the muggle Sir Lancelot clashes with the great witch Morgana, who is, perhaps unjustly, depicted as an antagonist figure. By the end of their pursuit, less than half of Arthur's knights returned alive. Among those that did were the very Sir Lancelot and one Sir Bors, who went on to report to their monarch how Sir Percival and Sir Gallahad, in their purity, had achieved the Grail somewhere close to Babylon, in the mythical island of Sarras, but would not be able to return._

 _Is it possible that somehow, maybe, during one of his trips, Albus Dumbledore has stumbled in the legendary isle and brought back the dining cup of the Christ to our humble homeland? Stranger things have happened, as the saying goes, and it's right here, right now, in Hogwarts, guarded by something no one can get past if, as astutely put by Dumbledore himself, he wishes to maintain the integrity of his underpants and, perhaps, his sanity. As amazing as the knowledge that all our wildest dreams are right inside of our reach is, it begets equally important questions: Why did he bring it here? And who, in Merlin's name, is trying to steal it?_

"This can't be true," Hermione blurted, as Harry put down his paper, "the last part is pure speculation – cheap sensationalism."

"Gran said the Shadow Mage is usually right," said Neville. "He knows everything that happens in Hogwarts. And out of it too."

"Didn't you say your gran was here fifty years ago? How does she know him?" Ron said, scratching his chin.

Neville dropped his head, too timid to be in the spotlight for too long. "He's been writing forever for the Archimedes. He sends articles from time to time."

"That doesn't make sense," murmured Ron.

"Perhaps he's a teacher," Harry said, intrigued. He glanced up at the High Table, where Professor Dumbledore read his own copy of the school journal over his half-moon spectacles, looking thoroughly entertained. The idea of Dumbledore being the Shadow Mage passed through his head, and he chuckled at the image of the old wizard crouching inside a cupboard and giggling madly as he wrote his next tabloid piece.

"Don't be ridiculous, Harry," said Hermione, eyeing the newspaper like a test with a red score.

As silly as the Shadow Mage's article appeared to the more enlightened minds, it was the talk of the school for the next day. People spoke it about in the common-rooms, corridors, and even during class. Snape took great pleasure in deducting five points each from Lavender and Parvati for, "Spreading unjustified gossip." Harry, in turn, took great care to not open his mouth that Friday's potion class, letting Daphne divide their work, though he was glad she wasn't as bitter as she had been in previous class. If Lavender and Parvati's disturbance was unjustified or not, they were soon to find out, because after lunch the staff issued a sudden notice to all common rooms asking the students to attend dinner together at the Great Hall that evening.

"Man, it's awful they cancelled today's meeting," said Ron, as they joined their house in front of the High Table. Professor Dumbledore was already there, all smiles and wild gestures, chatting with McGonagall, who looked a lot less chipper. Down the table, Snape and Quirrell sat next to each other and appeared to talk in quiet voices. Harry didn't like it one bit to see his favourite professor speaking so casually with the hated potions master.

"We'll go next Friday. You already joined, didn't you? We don't have to hurry," Harry said, dreading the moment he would have to tell his friend he wasn't interested in the Dueling Club.

"Yeah, but the sooner you get in the sooner we can practice together," whined Ron.

"We can do it right now if we want – we just gotta find an empty classroom, isn't it?"

"It's not as fun..." pouted Ron.

"What about you, Hermione, did you join a club yet?" he asked the girl, as she sat down in front of them, hoping to take Ron's mind off duelling.

She scowled and a light pink came over her face, "I'm working on it..." she mumbled.

"What do you mean – just walk up to them and sign the book, it's that simple," said Ron.

Hermione looked away at the professor's table and changed the subject, "Everyone's there, even Professor Trelawney. What do you think they're going to announce?"

"Fifty wands Dumbledore confirms the Mage's story," said George, sitting next to them, the other third-years on his left side.

"What? No, if anything he's going to dismiss it," replied Hermione.

"I wouldn't be so sure. Since when do they bother dismissing rumours?" said Fred, slipping down into a seat across his brother and next to Hermione.

"You really think the Grail is real?" asked Harry to the twins.

"I have an inkling we're about to find out, my spectacled friend."

The food arrived, and they proceed to eat dinner while chatting about what they'd do if they had something like the Holy Grail ("What does it even do anyway?"). After the dessert disappeared, at last Dumbledore rose from his seat, the babble dying away as he did.

"Thank you for joining me on this fine evening!" he said cheerfully. "I'm happy to say these two weeks here with you have breathed new life into these old bones of mine. So much to learn, and such sharp minds at it, I am beside myself with joy..."

His grin grew ever larger.

"I am, in special, speaking of our esteemed Shadow Mage." Dumbledore tipped his funny hat, "whose literacy and investigative skills never cease to amaze me. To put it simply and succinctly as to not rob you even more of your time, I will say this: he is absolutely correct."

A murmur ran through the Hall, as all students watched Dumbledore speak, and even the professors seemed to hardly believe what the headmaster had just said. Fred and George raised and high-fived over the table.

"It was meant to be a pleasant surprise for the end of our school year," continued Dumbledore, looking like he couldn't be happier despite his words, "to award those who gave the best of themselves for the noble cause of learning, but I suppose the metaphorical cat is out of the bag now. Without further ado, the house to win the House Cup this year will receive as reward none other than The Holy Grail itself!"

The silence was tangible in the hall. No one dared so much as breathe and watched wide wide eyes. But Dumbledore wasn't finished. He spread his arms and smiled down at them, his eyes twinkling like never before.

"Don't let that stop you, however. By all means, seek it. Go, go, right now, make haste, run up and brave the challenge of the third floor for the greatest prize in the world!"

There was perhaps a full three seconds before the Great Hall exploded into noise. Still on his seat, and watching it all unfold, Harry couldn't help but think to himself: Dumbledore isn't barmy, he is _insane_.


	6. The Investment Club

**AN: As always thank you to whoever reviewed, followed, or added this story to his favourites, and a special thanks to haphne24 for beta-reading. Reviews are welcomed, no need to be shy.**

* * *

 **Chapter Six: The Investment Club**

Before the end of the week, at least a hundred students had visited the previously forbidden third-floor corridor. By next Thursday, half the school had their run-in with the mysterious place. Although there was no case serious enough to be taken to the school infirmary, reports varied from slight nausea to full out hallucinations before their legs forced them to flee as fast as they could. The challenge defended the grail jealously, and none had managed to overcome it so far.

Harry and the other first-year Gryffindors walked down the front steps to reach a flat lawn on the opposite side of the forbidden forest, abreast him, Hermione was going through a word-to-word recital of Quidditch Through the Ages. He gave the occasional 'hmm' and 'really' to appear interested, but truth be told, he wasn't. He longed to take the broom and try for himself, not let some scholar tell him what to feel.

They reached the stop to find the Slytherins already there, accompanied by Professor Snape.

"Is something wrong, Professor? Where's Madam Hooch?" asked Ron, when they stopped in front of the Slytherins.

"I will be your instructor for this lesson," said Snape with a sneer.

They proceeded to stand by the several brooms lined up side by side on the ground. Snape taught them how to call their broom, and Harry was delightfully surprised when he was one of the two students to which it flew up at once; the other was Daphne. It took Ron a couple tries to get it right, and Hermione was still unsuccessful when Snape began dictating their next batch of instructions.

"Mount your brooms," Snape said. "On my whistle, kick off the ground hard and try to not to fall."

Snape sounded the whistle and up they went. Harry soared through the sky with ease, up and down, right and left, it seemed natural for him. The wind swept through his hair and flapped his clothes behind. Harry loved every second of it and soon his joy overcame his wariness, taking him to greater heights and bolder manoeuvres that he didn't even realize he was doing. He felt one with the broom and was cruising through the air until a voice startled him.

"Didn't think you flew before coming here."

Harry straightened himself and steadied his broom. Flying a few feet away and on a level with him was Daphne, hair tied in a ponytail and seeming very comfortable on her own broom. Looking down, Harry saw they hovered very high from the ground, Snape and their classmates appearing very small against the olive field and the dark expanse of the forbidden forest; he hadn't realized he flew up that high.

"I didn't," he said. Already growing upset he added, "Why? Am I doing it wrong too?"

Daphne's face hardened, "Be careful, Potter; you fall now, you die." And she flew off to even heights.

Harry, not wanting to give her the last word, chased. They circled each other in a weird game of tag, and pretty soon Harry had forgotten they were supposed to be feuding and was laughing to his heart's content, racing the girl through the sky. She, in turn, had a wide grin and seemed to be enjoying it as much as he was.

Sometime later, worried Snape might get angry, he went down to join the other first years. Snape was so unfair that Harry did not put it past him to take points from him for daring to enjoy himself in a lesson. He came down to Ron and Draco Malfoy hovering close together in a heated argument. Malfoy was Slytherin in their year who loved to torment other students, in special Gryffindors. Ron's patience with the boy seemed to have run its course. Snape stood on the edge of the field, ignoring everything.

"-and what have your lessons got you, Weasel? Can't even stir your broom properly. Bet your mum's just ashamed of you now. Serves her right, if you ask me – marrying down riff-raff like your-" Malfoy was saying.

"SHUT UP!" yelled Ron; he had gone as red as their ties, "Let's go now! You and me Malfoy; I'll show everyone who knocks the other off."

Malfoy sneered. regarding Ron from up down, and his grin grew larger when Harry approached. Only, he hadn't been looking at him, rather he watched Daphne, who flew past him to speak with Davis.

"Better, let's have a Quidditch match. Five on five, loser eats his words – what do you say, Weasel?" Malfoy said.

Ron, who had also seen the Slytherin watch Daphne descend, clenched his jaw, "Snape won't let us have a match."

Malfoy shouted, "Professor Snape, can we have a quick game?!"

Snape's replied with a dismissive gesture.

"What about now?" Malfoy turned to them with a nasty smile.

"You're on," said Ron, eyes darkening.

"Goyle," said Malfoy, calling a boy twice their size over. Goyle took a metal ball two times the size of his fist from inside his robes; it seemed Malfoy had been planning this.

"Usual rules – hit the marks, can't hold it for more than five seconds," he continued, gesturing to two distinctive points on the opposite sides of the field. "Whoever scores twenty points first, wins. Do you want the ball or you wanna choose first?"

By now most students had flown closer to watch the boys. Harry saw Neville and Hermione ways off, holding tight to their brooms and floating no more than a couple feet from the ground.

"Ball," said Ron, watching Malfoy with hatred; Harry had never seen his friend so angry.

The Slytherin threw it to the freckled boy and glanced about himself, seeming to weigh his options. Harry was sure he would go for the trolls that always followed him around, Crabbe and Goyle. Instead, Malfoy called someone else. "Daphne," he said.

Every head turned to the other blonde, waiting for her to float over; she watched them for a few seconds, then looked away.

"Don't drag me into your business," she said, and the boy's smile faltered. Next to him, Ron grinned.

"Goyle," Malfoy announced, recovering from Daphne's dismissal.

Ron looked around as well, searching for a teammate. The boy was in much higher spirits now.

"Seamus," he called. Seamus nodded and joined him.

"Crabbe," said Malfoy. The smile had disappeared from his face.

Ron turned to Harry that moment, in his eyes a silent question. Harry nodded back. _I can do it_.

"Harry." He brought his broomstick closer, to float next to Ron and face Malfoy.

"Nott."

"Lavender," called Ron. The girl gave a joyful "Yay!" and flew over, happy to be included.

There was silence then, as Malfoy turned on his broom and searched the faces of his housemates. Apparently, the members of the house of cunning were much less eager to participate in physical activities. Zabini, the last of the first year Slytherins boys, wasn't even in the air; he sat on a rock close to the castle and looked to be cleaning his nails. Of the girls, only Pansy Parkinson seemed interested and watched him with a desperate look, almost asking to be chosen. Malfoy grunted and looked he was about to do just that when someone spoke up.

"I'll play for you, Malfoy." It was Daphne, ascending to join the team. She stopped in front of Harry, staring right into his eyes. Below, Tracey Davis hid her face in her hand.

It was Malfoy's turn to split his face with a grin, and Ron's face to darken.

"Parvarti," said Ron at last.

The two teams formed, they turned to get in their positions, as though they had done it a thousand times before. Aside from him, Harry noted, Ron had only chosen kids from a magical background. Neville was left out for obvious reasons, but Dean, Hermione and the other girls couldn't have been familiar with flying; Choosing Harry spoke a lot of Ron's trust him.

The redhead flew closer.

"This is bad," he murmured, "I thought we were safe when Greengrass told him off."

"Why do you say that?" Harry asked.

"She used to play seeker in the junior leagues." Ron clutched the front Harry's robe, almost shaking the spectacled boy. "We're done for, mate! Balls, and we can't lose this!"

Harry thought his friend was blowing this over, but the look the boy's face told him he was taking it very seriously.

"Is it about what Malfoy said earlier?" Harry said. "Why did he call you weasel?"

"It's my father's name – I mean, it's Weasley. He took my mother's name when they married," said Ron, his ears pink. "Doesn't matter, I just want Malfoy to shut up," and finished gloomily, "but it's over now, Greengrass will destroy us."

Harry understood. He could relate to that. Years of Dudley making fun of his parents came to mind. He looked over his shoulder and watched Daphne ready herself next to the others. He remembered how they flew together earlier, high in the sky; she was good, but he didn't think she was better than him. With a smirk, Harry turned to Ron.

"Don't worry, we will win," he said. Ron eyebrow's shot up at his confidence.

They all got to their places to start the match. With no referee, they would count to five and start passing the ball around until someone scored. Ron explained the rules of their mock quidditch game: a player couldn't hold the quaffle for over five seconds or the other team would get a free shot, tackles also resulted in free shots, quaffle in the ground was to whoever caught it first, and twenty points would end the game.

Harry buzzed on his broom with excitement, waiting for the start. A few feet below, Ron had the ball; minutes before he had told them he would throw it first to Seamus, in an attempt to bypass the wall known as Crabbe and Goyle. In front of him, mirroring his position, Daphne looked as excited as himself. He thought it safe to call her brush-off of Malfoy earlier a bluff; she actually loved to fly.

"One," called Ron and Malfoy. "Two – three – four – and five!"

They all burst into activity, sweeping through the field towards each other. Just before his five seconds were up, Ron flung the ball at Seamus, who, as planned, had advanced just a bit more as to stay after Goyle. Seamus caught it with ease and flew forward as much as he was allowed. Harry, trailing his movement from above, watched the boy try to pass it again to Ron, somehow knowing the boy's aim was off, and Malfoy would end up intercepting the quaffle.

In a quarter of a second, Harry looked across at Daphne, his self-declared counter for the match, saw her following the ball movements, calculated how long until Malfoy caught it and if himself would get there in time. He gripped the broomstick, pressed his feet against the stirrups, his body inclining by itself, and shot through the sky like a hawk, leaving a stunned blonde girl behind. Malfoy didn't even see him coming. He snatched the ball from the air, and speed up for the mark-like stone on the end of the Slytherin side. Blood pounded in his ears and the air roared. In his head he counted to five and just before he was done he swung his arm back and hurled the quaffle with all his strength at the stone. It struck the mark with a loud, metallic bark. Harry allowed himself a moment of triumph and returned to his friends under the wide eyes of the Slytherins.

"Whoa! What was that?!" Ron exclaimed, hurrying to his side, "Since when can you fly like that?!"

"Yeah, Harry – that was amazing!" yelled Parvati; the others watched him with their mouths hanging in shock.

Harry took the praise with modesty – or so he thought – and just shrugged.

Ron slapped him on the back and said with a wide grin, "Well, don't stop now!"

They got in position again after Malfoy, or one of his goons, retrieved the ball. Daphne watched Harry with an intense expression. They counted to five again, and the match resumed, as Malfoy passed the quaffle to Nott. Harry paid attention, expecting to have an opportunity to intercept the ball again, but the brown-haired Slytherin aim was truer than Seamus's and he managed a successful pass to Crabbe. The large boy got his five seconds and pitched the quaffle at Daphne. Harry thought his chance had finally arrived when the ball made a curved trajectory to the blonde's diagonal, but, unlike the other players, who awaited the ball in their position, Daphne propelled forward and caught it, gaining ground and time. In seconds, Slytherin had also scored a point; she went back to their side, but not before throwing him a challenging smirk.

The game progressed, and quickly both teams figured their best chance at scoring laid with Harry and Daphne. They were both good, Harry with his ability to blur through the air like a lightning bolt, and Daphne's to predict plays and make her own elaborate ones. Both intercepted the quaffle many times, but never from each other, though they tried a great deal. The other players also scored, of course, but mostly from free shots, courtesy of Crabbe, Goyle, and the hotheads Ron and Seamus, eager to pay back their tackles. By the end, the score was nineteen to the Gryffindors and eighteen to the Slytherins, and the snakes held the ball; one point and they would be tied.

Malfoy tried to pass the quaffle to Goyle, who let it slip through his fingers. It landed on the grass, to await whoever went to pick it. As if time slowed down, Harry and Daphne looked at each other. The quaffle was on Slytherin's side, and the girl was closer, but Harry was faster, and both knew that; their chances were equal. Both dived to the ground. The air whistled around Harry, and in the corner of his eye he saw Daphne approaching; she would get there first.

He inclined his body even further, trying to gain speed. The earth neared quickly, but Harry had eyes only for the metallic ball resting on the dirt. Just a few more feet, he thought as he zoomed to the quaffle. Daphne was on him. They would collide. With a jerk, he twisted his body upside down on the broom and, almost feeling the grass scratch his clothes, he seized the quaffle. He had avoided Daphne, but it wasn't over. Flying low, glued to the ground, he didn't slow down. He fixed his eyes on the prize at the end of the field and propelled himself forward with all he had.

One – he counted, passing Malfoy and Goyle – two – he left Crabbe behind – three – only Nott was left – four – Nott was gone – five – he threw it for his life, his heart threatening to burst.

A resounding 'thunk' let them know the ball struck its target.

Harry pulled his broom straight and landed on the ground, his heart threatning to scape his chest. He had no words to describe what he felt as he watched the quaffle on the ground – the sign of their victory. Pride and euphoria mixed into something new and exciting.

They had won. _He won_ , he whispered in his mind.

He came back to the real world when he was enveloped on all sides by the other Gryffindors cheering loudly.

"You did it, Harry!"

"That was bloody fantastic, mate!"

It was just a mock match on a back garden field, but it _was_ fantastic. To watch Malfoy swallow his pride and drag his feet off to the castle in defeat; to see Snape wriggle his colossal nose in distaste, was _fantastic_. He loved every second of it and let himself bask in the praise of his house-mates.

In his joy, he missed Daphne's appraising stare over her shoulder as she left with her friend and Hermione's disapproving gaze.

The celebration lasted the whole day and part of the next, as Ron recounted over and over the match to anyone close enough to listen. It was only a mock match, Harry would say, but not too loud. He found out he liked to win, the first taste of victory fresh in his heart. He wanted more, and couldn't wait to have it.

Next week, Oliver Wood, the captain of the Gryffindor team, held tryouts on a sunny afternoon on the Hogwarts Quidditch pitch, a grand oval-shaped field with high stands for people to watch the matches. He was, perhaps, the only person more excited than Harry there.

Long story short, Harry got the position for Seeker, easily out-flying all other candidates. Ron, unfortunately, failed to become Keeper; he couldn't even try out for starter, as Wood had it and wouldn't be handing it to anyone else for the near future. The bench seat stayed with its previous owner, a fifth year who had held it for three years now. They practised three times a week and did not have time for much else. Harry was finally excused off duelling, and Ron left him alone. Later, though she did not tell it to him during one of their potions classes together, he learned Daphne had replaced the old Seeker as the newest addition to Slytherin team. Harry was secretly pleased he would fly against her again and trained harder than ever.

Hogwarts fell into a sort of normalcy after that. Harry attended classes, enjoyed DADA, practised Quidditch, and hang out with Ron and Hermione whenever he could. The students ended up taking the much more academical approach in seizing the Grail: through house points. Students like Hermione battled each other over answering questions, in fierce attempts to earn them. All around, clubs started setting dates for competitions, so their professor-advisor would hand out points to the winners. The Challenge stayed unbeaten in the third floor, forgotten, in its dutiful task of guarding the holy relic.

Things picked up again for Harry two days before the start of Quidditch season, on Halloween day. They would be playing Slytherin first, and Wood had set up a last minute training session/strategic meeting. Professor McGonagall, in all her compassion, excused the whole team from classes for the day to practice.

Harry was returning from the field, still in his Quidditch uniform, when he was met with a curious sight. He had taken a wrong staircase on his way to the Gryffindor Tower and was crossing one of the less used corridors on the second floor. Fred and George were standing close together with a Slytherin boy, talking in whispers; he could not make out what they were saying and walked closer. After a few moments the Slytherin handed them a couple golden coins, they wrote something on a sheet of paper and shook hands with the boy. He went on his way in the opposite direction.

The twins twisted around then and spotted Harry. With a start, they hid their hands behind their back and put on big, fake smiles.

"Oh, hello, Harry," said Fred.

"Taking a break from throwing girls in the Lake, I see. Well, don't let us keep you," George said, and they moved to leave.

"What're you doing?" said Harry, stepping in front of them.

The twins exchanged a glance.

"Nothing. Do we look like we're doing something, George?"

"We most certainly do not, Fred. I would even go as far as saying we look the opposite of that."

"Well put, brother, well put – I couldn't be doing nothing more if I tried."

Harry eyed them both. He had never seen the Gryffindor twins acting more suspicious, even when they were just about to pull a prank on someone they acted as naturally as they always did. Now though…

"Funny, because I could swear that Slytherin was just giving you guys money. Does that count as nothing?" Harry said, arching an eyebrow.

They shared a look again.

"Are you sure you didn't imagine that?" said Fred.

"Because I can't remember that happening at all," said George.

"I know what I saw."

"Well, Harry, even if that was true, it hardly concerns you, does it?" said George. They began circling Harry, their backs hidden.

"Private affair, my friend; ain't no one's business but ours," Fred said.

They had got past him and started making their way down the corridor when Harry spoke again.

"He was betting, wasn't he?"

The twins stopped dead in their tracks; they turned around to face to him, their faces serious for once. They brought their arms forward, and there it was the sheet in Fred's hands.

"I heard the guys on the team saying we weren't getting good odds for this game... you guys are handling the betting, huh? I don't know if McGonagall would be happy to know this," Harry said, walking up to them.

Fred sniggered and came closer, putting an arm around Harry's shoulders.

"Harry, Harry, one has to make a living around these parts, don't you agree? Why don't you forget this ever happened, and we go our separate ways as friends? What do you say? Would you do that for us?" he said.

"How about this? We throw in a prank on a person of your choice; just ask whenever and he shall suffer," George said.

Harry thought it over for a second and said, "What are the odds for Gryffindor?"

Fred blinked and checked the sheet, "Not good, that's true; yours are worse."

"What do you mean?"

"There's a bet for most aspects of the game, for example, who'll catch the Snitch," George explained, waggling his eyebrows.

"And what are my odds then?" asked Harry.

"One to thirty," Fred said, after briefly consulting the sheet again.

"People think you'll lose badly to Greengrass."

"What?! I bested her before, didn't I?" Harry exclaimed, feeling insulted.

"Not on her Nimbus Two Thousand though," said Fred, smirking. "You have what, a school Cleansweep? People like safe bets."

George seemed to have been struck by an idea because he suddenly opened up a huge grin. "Wanna bet on yourself, Harry? The payoff will be huge if you win. We'll throw in a crown on your name for you because we're such good friends."

And I won't be able to tell McGonagall, Harry thought. But that was fine, he had not wanted to tell on them, in the first place.

"I want in," he said.

Both twins widened their eyes at that.

"Excuse us?"

"I said I want in. You guys arrange the bets, right?"

"Why?" Fred asked.

"One has to make a living around these parts," Harry quoted.

George smiled, "You know you'd be expelled if they catch you, right?"

"I doubt that. They would have to expel you too, or it wouldn't be fair."

"I guess that's right, but why should we accept you? You're not the first to threaten us, you know, we have… other ways of dissuading you. Isn't that right, George?" Fred said.

"Positively, Fred, and I don't reckon Harrykins would like them too much."

Harry forced himself not to gulp and keep staring into their eyes, "You like bets, right? Make one with me."

"Ooh, what bet?" said George. Fred leaned in.

"If I catch the Snitch the next game, you'll let me join, if I don't I will never mention it again," Harry said.

"Hmm, I guess we are a little understaffed this year... what do you say, George?"

"Yeah, the grail stuff has reeeally amped up the stakes. I say: you beat Greengrass, we take you in, Harry. If you lose, you will pay back the money we hinge on your name, with interest. We have to profit from this if it's a bet, you see," George said, smirking, and Fred nodded in agreement.

"And how much is that?" Harry asked.

"Fifty lingots."

It was Harry's turn to widen his eyes, "Isn't that a little too much?"

"Dumbledore's speech raised the stakes. House points equal Holy Grail at the end of the year," Fred pointed.

"Those are the conditions. Do you agree?" George said.

Now Harry really did gulp down, but it was too late to back out, "I do."

"Marvellous. Glad to see you're enthusiastic as us about this. Do you hear this, brother? Our little investment club might be getting a new member, isn't that great?" said Fred, shaking Harry's hand.

"I do hear, brother. A new member or a sizeable sum of gold," said George, smiling a wicked smile. "I can't wait."

"I guess we'll know in two days, won't we, Harry?" Fred said, moving to stand with his brother.

"I guess we will," he said, staring defiantly in into their eyes.

"Well, that's great. Good talking to you. See you at the feast later. By the way, I would start looking for a better broom if I were you." They left laughing.

* * *

At the feast, he sat with the other boys, joking around and trying to enjoy the Halloween Feast. Pumpkin decorations adorned the four tables in the Great Hall, bats flew over their heads to land on the walls, and the ceiling showed a clear night sky with a huge orange full moon. Up in the High Table, Professor Dumbledore wore bright orange robes and giggled as bats tried to hide in his pointy hat, McGonnagal and Sprout were engaged in a relaxed chat, and Professor Quirrell sipped from a blood-red goblet as she watched the students and didn't dignify Snape with her attention. The potions master looked as sour as he did every day. All in all, it was a great night, if the surrounding smiles on his friends's faces were to attest.

Yet, Harry couldn't help but get the sense that someone was missing.

"Hey, Harry, what gotcha you all serious about?" said Dean, elbowing Seamus next to him, and the boys grinned.

"He's thinking about _her,_ " joined Ron, a big smirk on his face.

"Ooohh," the boys chorused. Even Neville got in with their teasing, "Professor Quirrell!" they all exclaimed together.

Harry shot them an angry look, hoping it was enough to shut them up.

Ron laughed louder, "Harry, you make it too obvious." He got into a position and face expression he was known to use to mimic Harry, "Professor Quirrell, I think I got it!"

"Professor Quirrell, can you show it again?" mimicked Dean, in a much worse impersonation.

"Professor Quirrell, do I get a kiss if I get it right?" Seamus said, making kissy faces. Everyone burst into laughter.

"Sod off..." Harry said wih a grunt. He had figured who was missing from the feast. "Actually, I was thinking about Hermione."

Ron recoiled, "Ew, mate… at least Quirrell's pretty."

"No, you prat. I mean – have you seen Hermione today?" he said.

Ron seemed to think for a second and shook his head. The other boys did the same.

"She didn't turn up for any classes," said Neville, "I thought you guys knew where she was."

"She's more of Harry's friend," said Ron, unapologetic. Harry almost punched himself for not noticing the girl had disappeared for the whole of the day, though to be fair he had spent most of it in the Quidditch pitch. He was used to spending so much time with Ron that sometimes he'd forget to pay attention to other people.

Harry called out to Parvati and Lavender ways down the table.

"Hey, do you guys know where Hermione is?"

They looked at each other then back at him and shook their heads.

Where was she? He remembered seeing her during breakfast, but she left shortly after he arrived and didn't say much besides a hasty, "good morning".

Harry was worried, and even Ron, who seemed to want to give the impression he did not care one bit, was visibly somber than before. When the feast came to an end, and the head of houses ordered the prefects to escort the students back to their common rooms, Harry could not shake the feeling that something was going wrong somewhere with his bushy-haired friend.

Luckily, someone up there seemed to be also watching after Hermione.

As Harry and Ron were about the leave the Great Hall, a blonde first year from Hufflepuff grabbed Harry's arm, stopping him in his feet. They turned to face her, and Harry heard Ron breath in.

"Are you Harry Potter?" she asked.

"What do you want?" Ron snarled before he could reply. His voice sounded angry.

She looked at him, brows furrowed slightly. Harry could swear he saw a look of hurt cross her eyes, but it was gone in a moment, and cold annoyance replaced it. "Hello to you too, Ronald."

Ron just scowled further.

"Yes, I'm Harry," he said at last, "You know each other?"

The girl raised her eyebrows at Ron. The boy grunted and gestured at her.

"Harry, this is Adamaris Hufflepuff. Our parents talk occasionally."

Adamaris rolled her eyes at him.

"Can I help you?" Harry asked. The girl looked somewhat nervous, shifting her weight around and throwing glances about the other students leaving.

"It's about your friend..." she said, lowering her voice, "Hermione Granger."

Harry and Ron jolted to attention.

"What about her?" Harry asked. What could a Hufflepuff first year he had seen but once know about the Gryffindor girl? Where was Hermione?

"Well – the truth is." The girl breathed, looking like she wanted to be anywhere but there, "she's been wanting to get into our club…"

Harry heard Ron murmur a "Damn, Hermione" under his breath. He looked at the redhead and then back at the Hufflepuff.

"Any problem with that?" Harry said, voice growing hard. Ron's reaction did not shine a good light on where this conversation was going.

The girl closed her eyes and exhaled, "Actually, yes. The club doesn't accept applications; it's invitations only," she explained.

"And Hermione wasn't invited," Harry said, anger flaring up. He had the impression he could make a pretty accurate guess why that was the case. "What's your point?"

"My point is," Adamaris said, crossing her arms and shifting her weight to on leg, "she didn't accept a 'no' the first time, nor any time after that, and has been bothering the secretary for the last two months." The girl stopped and gave an exasperated sigh, "So the president gave her a task, said if she completed it, she could get into the Company."

"What task?" asked Harry. He had a bad feeling since the girl had grasped his arm earlier, and it got worse the more she talked.

"To get the Holy Grail," said the Hufflepuff. "They told her yesterday – I think she went to the third floor this morning and... is probably still there."

Harry and Ron shared a worried look. That was a long time.

"Anyway, I thought you should know," she said, then turned to leave. The last of the Hufflepuffs were leaving the hall now. Behind them, Percy gestured for the belated Gryffindors to hurry up.

"Andy," called Ron hesitantly. She stopped and looked over her shoulder. "Thanks," he said. She nodded, her eyes softening for the fraction of a second, and left with her housemates.

Harry rounded up to Ron, "We need to go."

Ron looked to his brother and back to him, seeming to weight his options, "Okay."

They fell in step after Percy, following the prefect as he led them up to Gryffindor Tower. They loitered behind to the back of the procession and took a sharp turn on the second floor as soon as Ron's brother was out of their vision. They hurried up the stairs to the third floor, talking fast while they did.

"What's gotten into Hermione?" Harry said. They footsteps echoed on the empty corridors, and he swigged his head left and right on the lookout for Filch or his damned cat, "What's this club anyway?"

"Good Company – that's their name," Ron said between hasty breaths, "It's a bloody old club here in Hogwarts. Charlie said they only invite girls and stuff. It's supposed to be a 'study group', but it's just an excuse for a bunch of pureblood snobs to socialize."

Harry had never heard of them, but it wasn't surprising, seeing as his own social circle was limited to the Gryffindor first year male dormitory and, occasionally, Hermione herself.

"Why would she want to join them if they're that bad?" he asked, but, honestly, he could see why the idea of an exclusive and elitist intellectual gathering would appeal to people like Hermione.

"They get a lot of recognition out there. Ten out of ten past female high-chancellors of Magic were once part of that club," Ron said, and his face darkened. "They have a lot of influence here too – everyone's wants to be on their good side. If they don't like you for whatever reason…"

Harry scowled. They were starting to sound a lot like Dudley's group of thugs back in Little Whinging.

He looked a Ron, "How do you know so much anyway?"

The boy managed to shrug while running, "You'd know too if you had five older brothers who all came here before you."

"But it's weird, no one said anything; she's been missing all day," Harry said, going back to the subject. "You'd think the girls would notice."

Ron stared at him again, "No, Harry, didn't _you_ notice? She only talks to you."

Harry was speechless. That couldn't be true. He tried to recall all the times he saw Hermione talking to someone in the Great Hall or the Gryffindor Tower, but came with nothing; he only remembered she talking with them and, from time to time, Neville.

"She talks to you," he tried to argue.

"Only when you're around," Ron said. "We never talk if you aren't."

Harry thought about this. The Hermione he met at Hogwarts was different from the bustling girl he encountered on Diagon Alley, and she only got more introverted as time went on. Had she been shunned and drove away by their classmates all this time for being who she was, or simply neglected, left out of mind in favour of more interesting matters and friends? He remembered a girl with brown bushy hair speaking up for his sake on the first potions lesson and he clenched his jaw in anger. He had treated her the same way others had treated him before coming to Hogwarts and didn't even noticed it.

He vowed to change that.

They came to a stop in a secluded corridor on the third floor. Its single door by the end hinged ajar; almost inviting to whoever came across it.

Despite his initial curiosity, Harry had never visited the famous room of the Grail, since Quidditch took all his free time after Dumbledore had made his announcement. Seeing it for the first time, he had to say it looked like every other dead-end corridor in the castle.

He shared a last look with Ron, and they walked towards the door. Harry would be lying if he said he hadn't thought another Cuco to be the mysterious challenge of the Grail. With all the reports about people running away in fear, he half-expected to start feeling the bone-chilling cold he experienced at Hagrid's and begin hearing creepy voices in his head, but that was not the case as they approached the end of the corridor. Nothing was abnormal. Emboldened, Harry grabbed the knob, swung it open, and walked in.

It was dark, the only light coming from the corridor behind them. The room was longer than it was larger; it would be another corridor if not for its oval format. From what little he could see, the walls were bland and without any kind of decoration. Another door existed on the opposite side. True enough, there Hermione was, a few feet from the entrance and facing ahead. Her body trembled on its feet as if being held by a foreign force.

"Hermione?" he called, walking up to her. He took a hold of her shoulders and forced her to turn to face him. Her eyes were wide and stared ahead at nothing as if she had fallen asleep and they somehow had stayed open.

"Hermione! Hermione!" Harry began to shake her, calling her name again and again, but it was of no use, he couldn't break her out of whatever had taken hold of her.

He turned to Ron to ask for help, annoyed the boy hadn't stepped up to it already. He found the redhead standing a couple feet away from the door, barely having entered the room at all. He stood stiff and had the same empty look in his eyes as Hermione. Harry knew then something was going very wrong in that room.

He took a step toward Ron, and a sudden feeling of vertigo overtook him, his vision blackening. He blinked hard once, twice, shaking his head, and his sight returned. He took one more step toward Ron and then another; he had the strange notion his friend's still form was moving away from him.

He broke into a run, and the back of the room flew away from him, expanding into a long hallway of darkness. Astonished, Harry turned around to Hermione. The room was gone.

He was standing in the middle of a narrow cobbled street. On either side, cottages stood pressed together one after another; all with dark windows devoid of any sign of life. Above him, a starless night sky stared back. The moon could not be seen, and the only light on the road came from the golden streetlights by the edge of the sidewalks.

Behind him, the street stretched, darkness overtaking it as the lights gradually died along the way.

His vision was acting weird. He could focus on what was in front of him, but the edges were blurred, and things sometimes seemed to move on their own.

He took out his wand, feeling the wood foreign in his hand as if it almost wasn't there. He began his way forward.

At the very end of the road, just before it turned into soil, there was a house. This one was different, in the way that light shined from inside and through its windows.

He approached the gate, in which the carefully trimmed hedge met, and pushed it open. The door to the house itself, already slightly opened, invited him forward.

The cottage was small, warm, comforting. A fireplace burned faint flames that played shadows on the scattered children toys on the floor. From the kitchen came the alluring smell of curry.

Sensing no one, neither by sight nor by hearing, Harry walked farther into the house. Small frames rested over drawers and shelves pinned to the walls. Though no one appeared in the photos, their dark silhouettes were notable against the backgrounds.

A shiver went up Harry's spine when he noticed a small silhouette in the arms of the short and long-haired ones. It was baby.

Harry stepped away from the almost-vacant photographs and came face to face with the stairs leading to the second floor of the house.

He took a step, breathed, and went upstairs.

Unlike the ground floor, the second floor was devoid of light. The inexplicable moonlight coming through the windows allowed him to keep seeing.

He went past a couple of rooms, peering inside: one was an office, one a storage, some were too dark to see inside, and one a couple's bedroom. The last one was by the corridor and at the front of the house. Its door was closed; nailed to it existed a rectangular, wooden plaque. A single name was written on it: Harry.

With a gasp, he stepped back and stumbled, falling onto his bum. His wand clattering away on the floor and disappeared into another room. He stared up at the door for a long moment, before picking himself up. He started again toward it, reaching for the knob.

He felt a hand on his shoulder and was twisted around.

Before him was an immense hooded figure. It was so tall that it arched over him, bending under the ceiling. Its hands were bone white, with thin and long fingers that felt like ice against Harry's body. From inside its hood, infinite darkness stared back.

" _Harry,_ " it called.

He felt his blood drain, running cold down his body. His legs gave up beneath him, and he fell to his knees. A feeling of overbearing dread stirred inside him. The figure loomed over, its arms outstretched, ready to embrace him. He wanted to scream, to flee, to run.

At the height of his terror, his vision blurred completely before giving away like a dissolving mist. He suddenly felt very tired and cold, and only registered the warm arms that seemed to carry him. His eyes, foggy, saw only flashes of black and purple. His ears heard only a soft, gentle, "Wake up, Harry."


	7. Friends

**AN: Hi, and welcomed back to the story. This is the last introductory chapter, I hope you enjoy it. As always, a big thanks to everyone who reviewed, followed and added this fic to their favourites, and, of course, to haphne24 for beta-reading. Let me know what you think in a review, they're all very much appreciated and thoroughly enjoyed.**

* * *

 **Chapter Seven: Friends**

Harry woke up to the feeling of tangled sheets, sunlight warmth on his face, and the sweet smell of apples and roses. Without his glasses, the room was blurred beyond recognition. He fumbled over the shape of a nightstand beside the bed until his hands caught the indistinguishable frame of his spectacles. He put them on, and the world came into view.

He rested on an immense canopy bed with silk linen and many pillows as soft as cotton candy. The room around him was grand and extravagant. The nightstand, from which he retrieved his glasses, was long, of a deep brown and rich wood and full of shelves. Atop it were various items: a clock, a lampshade decorated with drawings of roses, an odd silvery instrument with balls hanging around each other, and a book. A set of windows filled one of the walls, which allowed the sunlight into the room and presented him with a view of the vast sky above and the green lands below. Opposite of it, and on the other side of the room, stood a table and a chair, both carved with elaborate designs and patterns. Above them, and behind the brushes and bottles filled with coloured liquids Harry guessed might have been perfumes, a tall and wide mirror hugged the wall. The whole set looked delicate and feminine.

He tried to remember the reason he was there. He closed his eyes and thought hard about the day before. Quidditch practice, the twins, Halloween feast, Hermione missing, he and Ron looking for her on the third floor and … and… he was taken to a strange place. At that, a sharp pain shot across his forehead, and Harry clapped a hand over his scar. The memory was foggy on that part, and the more he tried to remember, the more his scar hurt. To alleviate the pain he was forced to let the memory go.

Raising up, he felt the soft carpet under his feet and though he was still in his school uniform he noticed his feet were bare. Looking around, he found his socks and shoes by the steps of the bed and two exits from the bedroom. One of them led to a washroom. The other, to the most incredible place he had ever seen.

All over and arranged in no discernible order were many aligned tables with bubbling cauldrons and long glass bottles, connected to each other in the manner of a chemical lab. Viscous liquids flowed in a hurry between them, changing colour and form many times before he lost sight of them. Sometimes they were like water, sometimes like jelly, sometimes they were rocks, before becoming liquid again. On the other side of the room, half of a wall was covered by a world map, with several red lines connecting dots all over Europe, the Middle East, Northern Africa, and South America. The other half had been replaced with an aquarium inhabited by reddish-orange and white fish. Floating by the ceiling was a copy of the Solar System, complete with its own sun; when inspected closely they could be seen to be spinning around themselves and around the sun, much like their real counterparts would be doing at the moment, he guessed. Farther in the room, over a step and on a vantage point, stood a huge ebony desk and, behind it, a comfortable-looking padded chair. And behind those were shelves and shelves of books and tomes and cabinets. Also, most oddly, a tree appeared to grow right out the cobbles that formed the floor, its twigs and leaves and fruits looming above them. In the corner, tall and slim double-doors made of glass opened to round balcony. And that's where she was.

She sat by a table, one hand holding a newspaper, and the other slowly twisting a spoon in her tea. Her back reclined against the chair, and legs crossed over each other. Her hair was undone and swayed against the wind. It was the first time he had seen her without the tight, not-one-hair-out-of-place bun.

A small banquet was served: honey, toasts, eggs, sausages, sweet beans, tomatoes, bread, butter, mushrooms, ram, cheese, corn and chocolate cakes, pumpkin and orange juice, and even some coffee. There was a plate for Harry and her, although hers looked to be already filled. She seemed to have noticed him then, as she rose her head from the paper and offered him a smile.

"Good morning, Harry," Professor Quirrell said. She rested the journal down on her lap and gestured to the food on the table. "Breakfast? You must be starving."

His stomach didn't exactly growl at that moment, but he did notice he was quite hungry. He sat down on the opposite chair.

"I put them on a warming charm; didn't want anything going cold."

"Thanks, professor," he said, examining the food. He frowned, more pressing concerns coming to mind. "What am I doing here? Are these your chambers?"

"Yes, they are," she said, the smile never leaving her face. "I rescued you from the third floor, of course."

"I see..." he mumbled, shattered memories flashing by. "Where are Ron and Hermione?"

Quirrell watched him ad she gathered the cutlery, before answering: "How should I know? Walking down the castle, I suppose."

"They were there with me."

"I remember that," the professor drawled; she had started spreading butter on a toast. "Take the coffee, you look half asleep."

"I don't like coffee," Harry said. "Sorry, professor, but I want to know what happened."

"All right," she said. "Eat first, then we'll talk."

Sensing he wouldn't win against her, he started filling his plate. In time, Quirrell spoke up.

"We retrieved you and your friends from the third-floor room," she said. "Mister Gryffindor and Miss Granger woke up as soon as left the room but aside from a slight exhaustion they appeared unharmed, so we just sent them to the Infirmary, and, later, back to their dorms. You were another story."

Harry listened while munching on his breakfast, eyes glued on the woman. He waited for her to go on.

"You were in a deep slumber, and no matter what Madam Pomfrey did, you wouldn't wake up; I suggested we bring you to my office."

"No offence, professor, but why?" he asked.

Quirrell arched an eyebrow, "I AM the dark arts expert in this school, if you have forgotten."

He didn't know what he had expected to hear, but her answer was natural and obvious; there was no room to doubt her. Harry felt himself relax a bit, though he couldn't quite say why he had been tense in the first place.

"Thanks, professor, for helping me; I'm sorry for causing you trouble," he said.

"It wasn't any," she replied. "There's no need to be so guarded all the time, Harry – I've seen you in class, and you're already one of my best students," she said, eyes softening. "You can do so much more if you stop looking over your shoulder all the time; the world isn't out to get you."

He nodded and stopped short of thanking her again for the advice. He was no stranger to that complaint about him; even Ron had commented on it before, how sometimes he seemed too guarded. It hurt a bit more coming from the Dark Arts Professor.

Looking for a way to change the uncomfortable subject, he elected to go back to the previous one:

"You're saying that whatever that was in the room, it is dark?"

Quirrell threw a wicked smirk at him, "I didn't say that."

Of course, he wouldn't count on a professor confirming there was something dark potentially loose on the castle, but why would Professor Dumbledore bring in something like that and tell the students to go chase something it was protecting? Was the headmaster really off his rocker? Something was not right. He decided to push.

"What was it?" he said. "Inside the room, I mean."

"To tell you the truth, I don't know. The professors don't know much themselves; it's something only known to the headmaster. From the talk in the castle, maybe it's a spell to make people hallucinate, who knows?"

"Or a creature," Harry wondered, thinking back on the cave in Hagrid's basement. It wasn't the same experience, but he did remember seeing and hearing things then.

"Or a creature," Quirrell agreed. She waited for a moment before she spoke again. "Your reaction was stronger than most – I don't think anyone else was unable to wake up by themselves – if you don't mind me asking, what did you see?"

Harry tried to recall what he lived down in the room of the Grail, and his forehead once again pulsed with pain. This time though images came back to him, despite his previous tentative being so unsuccessful. He rubbed the spot his scar was located and looked back up. Quirrell watched him with unblinking rubies.

"Is there something wrong?" she said.

"It's just – my head hurts when I think about it, but I remember a house, I think, and a street."

"Do you recognize the house?"

"No, d'you think I should?" he asked in confusion.

"Not exactly, but I have a theory," she said leaning in over the table, looking excited to be sharing the information. "What you saw, and what many other students saw, when going in that room is a kind of... a dream, a figment of your mind that is used to trigger your 'flee' response, by way evoking fear. It wants to scare you, basically."

"So, it's just a nightmare?"

"Precisely! If it's borrowing from your mind to produce that effect, it's not far-fetched to suppose it may use a particularly unpleasant memory as well to achieve it."

Quirrell reclined back and crossed her arms, eyes closed and nodding to herself. She continued:

"That's why I must understand why you responded the way you did – do you know of any especially negative event in your life? A trauma or something the like?"

Harry did not mind the forwardness of the question. He understood she wanted to solve the mystery and couldn't help but feel infected with her eager curiosity.

"My parents died when I was a baby, but I don't remember. D'you think the house I saw could be where we lived? D'you think they..."

"...died there, and you saw it happen? That is possible, yes."

Harry squinted his eyes in thought. His time in Hogwarts, while distracting, had not diminished his desire to find out what happened to his parents. He was still determined to get to the bottom of it and if the former forbidden-room could shine some light on the events of eleven years before, perhaps it would be worth to submit himself to its influence if only to keep gazing into the past.

"It's just nightmares, right? I could visit again if I wanted; I can find out more."

Quirrell's smile vanished.

"...Maybe, but it's not without its danger. Longer times there could lead to severe muscle exhaustion to, let's say, Miss Granger, but while that can be inconvenient and painful, it can also be treated with relative ease," she explained. "For you, it was an entire day before I managed to wake you. Professor McGonagall would have forced me to let you go and transfer you to a proper hospital if I took any longer. I can't say what would happen if you end up going back and spending even more time there."

Harry scowled. That wasn't what he wanted to hear.

"Was it really that dangerous though? I'm fine, aren't I?" he said, sounding childish even to himself.

"You're fine now. It wasn't easy to heal you, and if I were any less of a witch you might still be in that bed, comatose."

"Why Dumbledore told us to go after it if it's so dangerous?" he challenged, sounding harsher than he intended.

"The headmaster is an old and powerful wizard, Harry," Quirrell said with the air of a patient teacher. "Sometimes his motives are not clear to average people like us, and more times than not his actions have more than one interpretation. I think you're clever enough to understand what I mean by that."

Harry did not back down, "Isn't he still responsible for the students?"

The professor sighed. "Yes, yes, you're right. I suppose we're all very lucky I was there to ensure your safety then, aren't we?"

Harry could not hold his anger in front of Quirrell's kind eyes; he turned his head and looked away.

"Regardless, I will talk to the heads of the houses," she continued, in a more serious tone. "Tell them to warn their students with similar pasts to yours to avoid coming in contact with the third-floor room."

Harry still did not look back.

"Don't sulk, Harry," she spoke, a hint of impatience in her voice. "There are more effective ways to look for the truth than charging headfirst into danger with no thought to it. You're in Gryffindor, and I commend your bravery, but there's a limit before it turns into stupidity.

"...Besides, that pout is not THAT cute."

Harry felt his cheeks heat and turned to see her teasing smirk. He took a gulp of his warm tea to try and conceal his embarrassment.

"Sorry, Professor," he said.

Still, he could not say he wasn't having fun in her company and wanted to keep discussing theories with her, but then something she had said earlier came to the front of his mind.

"Wait, how long was I out?"

"A day," Quirrell replied.

"Then it means..." he said, and his eyes widened. He rose with a start. "The Quidditch match is today!"

"Oh, you're right," she said as if she just remembered it too.

Harry gave her an incredulous look as if to say, 'Don't 'Oh, you're right' me!'.

"What time is it?" he asked.

"Ten forty-five," she replied after checking a pocket watch.

"The match is in fifteen minutes!"

"You better run, then?"

"You're right," he said and started to run for the door, but stopped before leaving. "Thanks, professor, for helping me and for breakfast… do you happen to have a good broom I can borrow?"

* * *

"Alicia Spinnet passes the Quaffle to Johnson, that was really neat, flew right over Pucey – she's speeding to the goal aaaand – oh, Bletchley catches the Quaffle, I guess that's natural when you're the size of a wardrobe – sorry, Professor – the games goes on, Flint advances, that guy is flying circles over the Gryffindor team – Gryffindor's Beater sends him a bludger for his trouble, I don't think he saw it, it's heading right to his b – Greengrass kicks it away and Flints scores another one for Slytherin – that's the fifth time Slytherin's Seeker Daphne Greengrass has guaranteed a goal for the snakes! What is Potter doing?!"

What was he doing, indeed? Harry asked himself as he heard the voice of Lee Jordan commenting the game. He was high in the sky and flying loops around the pitch, looking for the snitch, just like he had planned with Oliver Wood and yet he had never felt as useless as he was feeling in that game.

He had underestimated Daphne, plain and simple. He had thought she would adhere to the same play-style Wood had introduced him to during practice: look for the Snitch and don't get hit. Instead, the blonde could not be found idle for a second, always flying around, following the game and butting in when favourable for her team. Slytherin was a hundred points ahead, thanks to her.

At first, he had told himself he would make up for it finding the Snitch first and securing the win for Gryffindor. That was a sound plan even; with the Cleansweep Five Quirrell had lent him, he had a chance of catching the golden pellet before Daphne if he made for it first. It wasn't the fastest broom in the air, not by a long shot, but it was a great improvement over the regular school ones he would have to use. Instead, they were approaching a point where it wouldn't matter if he caught the Snitch anymore. For all intends and purposes, he would become a dead weight.

Harry watched as Slytherin scored once more and felt his heart plummet. Hovering over the Gryffindor stands, he looked down to see the three red points of hair among the students. Ron sat next to Seamus, and they held a sign with the words 'POTTER FOR PRESIDENT' that had made him smile when he first saw it as he entered the field. The twins, Fred and George, were also sitting next to them, and, somehow, Harry was sure they were the only ones not sharing the mood of the rest of their house. In fact, he could almost feel their grin aimed at him.

That pissed him off more than anything else. He had gone out of his way and sought them out himself, proposed a wager and arrogantly declared he could defeat Daphne Greengrass anytime he wanted. In hindsight, it was expected they would take him on, with such outrageous claims. Daphne had played in the junior leagues, according to Ron; she knew what she was doing. He was an amateur, and they weren't in a back-yard mock match anymore.

Harry gritted his teeth. He would show them it wasn't just a stroke of luck.

Seeing Daphne flying among the other players and interfering with the game, he did what any sensible person in his position would do.

Harry flew right into a pass from Flint to Pucey and snatched the Quaffle for himself. The shocked Slytherin players couldn't have been expecting the idle Gryffindor Seeker to jump into the game so suddenly. Harry was glad when his own team did not just stand by and switched from defence to attack just as fast. It was the proof they weren't as worthless as the score made them out to be, as they took advantage of that window to counterattack.

Harry enjoyed the explosion of cheers from their half of the stands as Alicia scored a goal after his pass and breathed easier when Wood sent a thumbs-up his way. He was free to keep helping the team.

A bundle of green shot past him.

"Copying me will get you nowhere, Potter!" Daphne shouted over her shoulder. Harry watched her join her team and grinned to himself, his heart beating faster with excitement.

Despite Daphne's exclamation, he kept blocking Bludger shots whenever he could, and more than once he managed to foil the other seeker's plays. Still, he kept part of his attention focused on looking around for the Snitch; he knew it would be their real chance at winning the match in the end. It should really have been no surprise what he did when he saw the faint flutter of wings above.

Harry was in the middle of trying of intercepting a Bludger aimed at Angelina Johnson when the Snitch made itself known to him. In a moment, he pulled his broom upward and chased after the faint glimmer of gold. He heard the dim sound of metal against flesh as the Bludger hit the Chaser, and he was a little sorry, but his sudden change of directions managed to gain him a few seconds of advantage over the other Seeker, and he knew every one of them would be crucial.

He gripped the handle hard, forcing the broom to go faster. The golden ball flew up toward the great sky and still too far away for comfort. Below him, he felt more than heard the Slytherin Seeker trailing after him and allowed himself a moment to look back. Indeed, there she was, goggles magnifying her green orbs and ponytail flapping in the wind. She was gaining on him, surely and not really that slowly. Her broom was simply faster.

It wasn't long until they were shoulder to shoulder, and Harry was employing every trick he knew to go faster. The snitch, though, was now just an arm's length away, and if he strained his hard enough, he would be able to grab in a few seconds. Daphne and he both stretched their hands out at the same time. They were flying so close, as to not lose any distance over the golden pellet, that their extended fingers almost touched. It was so close – he could almost feel the wind the small wings of the Snitch was making as they flapped. And so did Daphne, he knew; she was going to get it first, and he felt his anger flare again at thinking of losing to her and the twins. So, he did the only thing he could do to win.

* * *

"Man, I can't believe you jumped off your broom!" Dean said for maybe the fifth time.

"Yeah, Harry, that was so reckless!" Parvati beamed, stars in her eyes.

They were seated on a couch in the Gryffindor common coom; Ron by Harry's side, and Parvati sitting on the couch's arm and hanging on his every word as Harry was forced to retell the tale of how he captured the Snitch and won Gryffindor's first victory against Slytherin in who knows how many years. Most first years from his house were gathered around them, asking for details over and over again. Harry was not used to that much attention, for the most part because whenever it happened it also meant he was about to be in a lot of pain, or at least have to escape in a hurry from Dudley and his lackeys. He found he did not mind it at all. Not when surrounded by friends admiring his deeds and with a refreshing cup of pumpkin juice in his hand.

After the game - and a private and very enthusiastic hugs-for-all celebration in the locker room - they took the party to the Gryffindor Tower. Nothing too rowdy, lest McGonagall be forced to cut it short – and Merlin knew their Head of House was as much ecstatic as her students - but there was music and even some food taken from the kitchen. Someone had smuggled in some drink they called Butterbeer, though only the older students were allowed to consume.

For the first half of the party, Wood glued himself to his side and dragged Harry along the room until the boy felt like he had met all members of their house. He had never shaken so many hands or received so many kisses on the cheek, courtesy of the more avid Quidditch female fans from the upper years ("He's so small and cute! Where did you find him, Ollie?"). Harry was his star player, Oliver had told him, his greatest pick since he became captain. With Harry, winning even the House Cup wasn't impossible.

"If you think this is great, Harry," Wood had said. "Wait until we win the Cup; this won't even compare!"

It didn't take a Quidditch expert to see Harry was the single reason they had won that game. His involvement in the plays and his subsequent capture of the Snitch were deciding factors. No one could deny that - no one - not even himself. It was natural for Harry to feel so proud, and yet…

"I thought I was gonna land on the broom, okay?" He chortled. "The jump was meant to be just a push to reach the Snitch - how would I know the broom would fly off in the other direction?"

"Mate, you were lucky Greengrass caught you before you became pasta on the ground," said Ron, also laughing.

"Yeah..."

Next to him, and almost leaning on his shoulder, Parvati snorted and wrinkled her nose, "Greengrass? She did what anyone else would do. I bet she's chewing herself now for not thinking of Harry's play. Better, Marcus Flint's doing it."

Daphne.

In his eagerness to win, Harry had thrown himself off his broom in order to catch the golden ball. He had succeeded, but it also meant the next second he was falling down towards the ground at incredible speeds. All the triumph he felt for touching the smooth gold of the Snitch had evaporated, and instead, his heart began to beat for fear. It was not his day to die though, because soon he felt an arm envelop his waist, and, without much thinking, he held for dear life on whatever had caught him. The green uniform had told him his saviour was none other than the opposing Seeker, who had matched the speed of his fall and slowed down to safety. Daphne delivered him to the ground, and, without so much a comment, marched off to the Slytherin locker room, her face flustered red. Of course, she must have been angry beyond all words her team had just lost and she had been all but forced to save the one responsible. After that, it didn't take long for everyone to figure out who held the Golden Snitch, and all hell broke loose.

He was the one celebrating with his house, and indeed it took quite a bit of his own skill, but he didn't like it he owed the success of his gambit to the kindness of his adversary. Perhaps he should just agree with Parvati, count himself lucky and forget about it all, but somehow that just didn't sit right with him.

"Ron's right, I'll have to thank her later."

"I'd be careful if I were you though," Seamus spoke up from his place, standing up amongst the other first years. "Flint's probably not thanking her for you. She may want to repay you a bit for that."

Harry wasn't fazed. An angry Daphne Greengrass wasn't anything new – Merlin, it was her default mood around him; he owed her his thanks, at the very least.

"I'll keep that in mind, Seamus."

They kept talking and reliving the match some more, but Harry's duties as star player were not over, and he was soon snatched away by Alicia Spinnet to be introduced to a group of third-year girls. Angelina Johnson was among them and assured Harry no ill will remained from him letting her be hit on purpose in order to win the game, but declared Harry should not complain about any rough handling of her own (something he did not quite get the meaning of but that sent the other girls in fits of giggling).

Much later, and after Harry became buddies with every member of the team and their social circle, the party started to die down and most students left the common room in search of other things to do. That was when Harry found the time, and privacy, for _them_.

They were leaning against a table in a dark corner if the room, whistling a tune to themselves; a bag containing what Harry could guess was the Butterbeer half hidden behind the two. Harry approached in a casual stroll and head held high.

"Ah ah ah, sorry, but we can't sell any drinks to first years. Company policy."

"Even if they happen to be the MVP of the game. Your juice will have to do, Player."

Harry smirked.

"Are you sure you can't you make an exception? I just won a big wager, after all."

Identical grins split their faces.

"What do you think, Forge, is this ickle firstie ready to accept the gift of the gods?"

"I'm not sure, Gred, you know what they say, with a great wand comes…"

Harry looked around to make sure they were far enough from anyone. Only a few seventh years by the fire and scattered couples here and there remained in the common room.

"Are these supposed to be nicknames? If so, they're pretty stupid, everyone must know it's you they're talking about," Harry said.

The one called Gred raised a finger.

"Don't be hasty to judge, Player, there's much you still don't know."

"In this business, you're like a newborn kneazle," Forge said, crossing his arms.

"Whatever, just tell me how we're doing this," Harry said.

They sighed and dropped their shoulder in fake disappointment.

"You're no fun," Gred said. He took a small pouch the size of his fist out of his robes and threw it at Harry.

It was heavier than it looked, and Harry peered inside to find a couple dozen golden rectangles with crowns engraved on them. He guessed there was about fifty of them in the pouch.

"What's this?" he asked.

"The stake we said we would bet on you. Mind you, we didn't have to give you this."

"But you did make us a good profit in this game, so we're offering this as your welcome gift," said Forge with a smile. "We are good friends to have, Player."

"Thanks, I guess," Harry said, stashing the gold away inside his clothes.

"We can't tell you more, this is not the place. Talk to Hair later, he'll teach you the ropes."

There must have been something more to the nicknames because as soon as he heard the word 'Hair' he knew it referred to 'Lee Jordan Third Year Gryffindor'. Harry blinked, not quite sure how the information had got into his head.

"Okay."

"Well, good talking to you," said Gred.

"Bye," said Forge.

"Wait, I want to change my nickname," Harry butted in before they ended the conversation. "I want it to be The Lightning Mediator or-"

"Too late," interjected Forge, shaking his head.

"Awful taste, by the way."

"But I don't like 'Player'," Harry protested.

"Too bad."

"Stop whining – I think it fits."

"Because I play Quidditch? Really original, guys!"

"I don't want to hear this from The Lighting Mediator. And that's not the only reason," said Gred, marrying a grin with his brother that left Harry feeling uncomfortable. "Say, Harry, is there a chance that, up there in the sky, you ended up stealing…"

"... More than the snitch from a certain princess?" finished Forge.

"What're you guys talking about?"

"Alas, he is too young, dear brother," exclaimed Gred with a dramatic hand on his chest.

"Indeed, dear brother," agreed Forge with a theatrical sight. "Do not worry, Player, just keep up the good work, and I'm sure you'll have us thoroughly entertained."

"But, brother, aren't we the ones supposed to be entertaining?" asked the other twin.

"And he will entertain us in turn."

"Oh, I see. That's genius, as expected from someone as handsome as you."

"You flatter me, brother, when in reality you're the handsome one."

Harry raised an eyebrow at their antics and decided to interrupt before they forgot he was there.

"Okay, I think I got it – I'll talk to L-Hair tomorrow," Harry said, finding it strange when he tried to say 'Lee' but the nickname rolled off his tongue instead. "Just, one more thing…"

"What?"

"Why do you guys do this?" he asked what had been bothering him since he found out about the scheme. "I mean, you don't need it, do you? You guys are rich."

Gred once again raised his finger.

"Correction," he said. "Our parents are rich."

"In a way, we're just as penniless as you," his twin finished.

Harry nodded, but not really understanding. The lady at the train station - their mother, he guessed - didn't seem anything like the Dursleys. There shouldn't be any reason her children would need another source of income. In the end, he let it go, deciding he just didn't know enough about them.

"Do you need anything else, Harry?"

"No, I'm good."

"Then shoo, you're scaring the clientele away. If possible, leave the common room too."

"I can't; I'm waiting for someone."

Harry didn't know what sort of shady products the twins wanted to commercialize, but he was sure he must have ended up botching their efforts. He waited in the common room until he couldn't ward off his exhaustion anymore and dragged his feet to his bed. The night had long fallen, and the person he had been waiting for did not show up.

Harry made sure to pull Lee Jordan aside the next day and inquiry at length about his new activities. The third-year had been more cooperative than his fellow 'club members' and took his time to introduce him to the world of bookmaking: jargon, rules, tricks, key punters; he wanted Harry absolute ready to be out there.

"... We can't leave you on Quidditch, it'll look fishy," Lee had said. "We'll send you the guys from small club competitions, exams and other light stuff. Create trust with the punters, you know. Trust tends to open wallets."

"Got it," he had answered, fascinated with all the new knowledge.

"Also, advice: forget about all this when you're not on duty – it makes easier to not get caught. If you get caught, you're on your own, you can't even tattle on us; the nicknames make sure of that."

"How do they even work? I just knew who you were from yours."

"If your name's in the book," explained Lee. "That is, if you ever made a bet, or are one of the bookmakers – that is us – you can hear them, and the book lets you know who that bookie is. If not, all you hear is gibberish. It's also impossible to write them down."

"What about our real names? Can't someone just call us by them?"

Lee had grinned before his reply. "That's the good part: I, you, and those two don't even exist to the book; only Player, Hair, Gred and Forge. If your name's in it, it's impossible for you to use our names in that context."

"I see." It was no surprise the twins had wanted to drag him into a bet – it wasn't only that he would also be punished for participating, but it would make it very difficult to give them away. "There are still holes though, it isn't impossible to tell on us."

"Of course there are, how would we get new punters otherwise? But it takes a much more _physical_ effort."

"Right. It's still pretty clever – who thought of that?"

"The book's a Gryffindor family heirloom. We don't know who thought of it all, but that's also an advantage for us because I doubt even seventh years know magic as advanced as that."

That same week Harry started receiving bets, often from awkward and nervous students, and never with big stakes like the one the twins hinged on him in his match. It seemed Lee had been right about trust. It helped his popularity suffered from a sudden surge after that game; people he didn't remember the name of – but was sure to have been introduced to at some point – would call his name in the corridors, others would try to invite him to sit with them at meals, and even McGonagall seemed a tad softer on him during her lesson.

It was with that newly gained confidence that he walked in Potions the next Friday. Snape glanced once at him and wrinkled his nose like someone just sneezed next to him. It Harry smile. In the front row, his partner had already arrived: before the cauldron and fidgeting with the utensils, sat an annoyed-looking Daphne, with the demeanour of someone who had been dragged by force to the classroom.

"Hello, Daphne, how're you doing?" Harry greeted, his smile somehow managing to grow, and put down his things on the table next to hers.

"Spare me yar cheek, Potter," she snapped, squinting her lime-coloured eyes at him. "And who gave you permission to be so familiar with me?"

He shrugged – he had already got used to calling her that in his mind.

After the last of the students filled their seats, Snape went on with the roll call and describing the potion they would have to prepare that day, a tonic to vanquish itchiness. As they took out the needed ingredients, Harry decided to hurry up with the unpleasant business.

"Daphne, I, ah – thank you for the help back there in the match, you know, catching me when I fell," he said, trying to hurry the words. A faint red tinged her cheeks, and she snapped her head away; it seemed she was still angry about the loss.

"Don't go jumping off your broom in the middle of the flight, moron," she replied. "Not everyone wants to see your entrails splattered on the ground, no matter how annoying you are."

Harry grimaced, picturing the image in his head. At the very least, it helped put in perspective the fate the blonde had saved him from.

"Sorry… Wood forgot to mention that could happen."

She snorted. "That's just common sense though; you don't jump off a horse when he's running at full speed."

"I guess you don't. Still, thank you."

She didn't reply, and they went back to focusing on the potion. All around them the first years worked as well as they could without killing each other. After a number of lessons, Harry had concluded Snape must have had a knack for guessing who would get along with who and who wouldn't. Unfortunately, he used his gift to further antagonize his students and matched them with the worst possible person. All pairs had at least one time during the classes been at each others throat, which always resulted in the professor chiding the two and deducting points (from Gryffindor, of course). Harry and Daphne appeared to be the ones who worked best together and often completed the assignment in an acceptable manner, largely because Harry had resigned himself to the girl's perpetual complaining of his actions. So it was a bit surprising when next she spoke, it wasn't for her usual admonitions.

"I heard ye went after the Grail with Granger," she said in a level tone.

"That's not what happened. Ron and I went there looking for her, that's all," Harry explained, then narrowed his eyes. "I thought you of all people would know."

"Why should I know what you're up to?"

"These guys told Hermione to go there as some sort of test that was in reality just a way to get her off their backs. I thought you would know all about it. You look just like the kind of person they'd invite to their club," Harry told her. He guessed Princess Greengrass would be right up their list of people to send an invite to.

At that Daphne fully turned at him. "Are you talking about the Company? And you thought, since I'm me, I'd be delighted to hop in and be all buddy-buddy with them?" she all but hissed. When he didn't respond, she glared at him and continued. "Oh, that's grand, ye think you know me? You hear idiots talking about me behind my back, and suddenly ye have me all figured out, have you? Well, think again, Potter, because it seems you have confounded me for the likes of Malfoy and Parkinson, and if I look anything like them to you, maybe ye got to find yourself new glasses."

Harry was bewildered; he hadn't expected such a response from the girl – at most he was prepared to listen to snarky remarks about how it wasn't any of his business.

"Aren't you the one who's always on about how I'm some insufferable muggle-born? What else did you want me to think?" he said, exasperated, remembering the start of the year.

"Twice!" she exclaimed, just low enough so they wouldn't catch Snape's attention. "Because you were being so annoyingly clueless; I can hardly be held responsible for my actions."

Harry didn't quite agree with that statement, but since she had just saved him from an unfortunate encounter with the ground, he decided to give her the benefit of the doubt. He didn't apologize but went back to crushing the bat eyes in silence. After a while, he spoke up again, if only to clear the heavy air between them.

"Why do you ask though?" he said. "About the Grail, I mean."

He watched her push a strand of hair behind the ear, to reveal a small green dot of an earring pinned to it. Harry thought it looked cute on her. "Just curious," she answered, without looking at him, her attention on the potion. "I wanted to know how the place was."

"You didn't go there yet?"

"Isn't it obvious that I didn't?"

"I thought someone would have told you," he said, pensive.

"Everyone starts exaggerating, trying to make themselves look cooler," she replied. "I figured you'd at least tell the truth since you know you'll only look like an idiot if you try to impress me.

"Oh, really?"

"Will you tell me or not, Potter?" she lashed out, snapping her head back at him.

"I don't remember much, but it's like this big oval room without any lights on. I think there was a door on the other end, but I'm not sure," he said, clutching his brain for the memory. "The weird thing is, after going inside, you supposedly fall asleep on your feet and start seeing things – scary things."

Daphne listened with attention; she had stopped stirring the cauldron whilst he spoke, probably to not mess up the process. "That's the reason people can't reach the Grail? Sounds like some kind of charm that makes hallucinations; it matches with what everyone says at least."

Harry debated if he should tell what he saw in his head, but decided to tell her just his conclusions; it was kind of a private matter after all.

"No, I think it's more of a nightmare – in a way that you see things that naturally make you scared," he told her, furrowing his brow. "I don't think it's a charm. It's hard to explain, but I think I felt a… presence inside the room."

"Did you see anything?"

"No, it was too dark."

"I see," she said. "Not even the Grail?"

He shook his head. "Nothing."

She made an annoyed sound, kissing her teeth.

"What is The Holy Grail anyway?" he asked after a moment. "Ron told me we could buy a lot of sweets if we sold it, but I think he actually doesn't know."

Daphne gave him an unbelieving look. "Really, Potter?" and rolled her eyes. "Trust you gryffindorks to barge in first and ask questions later."

"I resent that nickname."

"Shush you," she said, then proceeded to inform him in a tone oddly reminiscent of McGonagall, of all people. "The legend says King Arthur was looking for a way to break Merlin free of his timeless prison so that he could return to advise the King. Looking through Merlin's abandoned tomes, he found a reference to an object, a sort of catalyst that could be used to strengthen a single use of magic in a way that it could trample over all other magics. That single spell would be so powerful it could achieve much more than what was originally meant to."

Harry nodded, and she continued.

"For example, using the Holy Grail, if you cast a _Reparo_ in a country ravaged by war, it would return to how it was before; if ye tried an unlocking charm in a prison outside of time, it would be possible to break in; Or if you cast a healing spell on a dead person..."

"… you could bring them back to life," Harry finished, the reality of the power finally dawning on him.

"Exactly," Daphne whispered. "It's a way to accomplish the impossible, to create a miracle – that's why it's called The Holy Grail."

Harry was speechless. He had no idea the immensity of the situation they found themselves in, with such an object so close to them.

Without thinking, he asked:

"What would you do with it?"

She smirked. "Turn you into a frog."

"Ha, ha."

They returned to their task, Harry with his mind far away. He understood then why all the craze around Dumbledore's announcement, and why so many students had risked themselves trying their hand at the third-floor room. It seemed to him, despite Quirrell's warning, returning to that room could do more than solve the matter of his parents' death. Temptation rose within him.

"Potter," Daphne called next to him. "Last lesson Professor Snape chose to instruct instead of having us brew a potion. He said everything would be on the test."

Harry closed his eyes and took a deep breath. Figures. Leave it to Snape to actually teach anything in the single class he happened to miss in the term. Perhaps he ought to rethink his use of the Grail, and have it instead transform the Potions master in the bat he so desperately wanted to be.

"Thanks, Daphne," he replied at last. "I'll ask Hermione to let me copy her notes later."

He was about to go back to the cauldron when something hard bumped into his left arm. Looking over, he found the cover of a notebook staring back at him.

"Just do it now. I'll finish the potion," she said, eyes focused on the instructions on the blackboard.

Harry blinked, then smiled to himself and brought his own notebook out. As he copied, his mind kept going back to the conversation they just had – the first civilized one since they met – whilst he tried to decipher whatever her ugly, lazily scribbled letters meant. He recalled a saying he once heard: "People with bad handwriting have good hearts." An outlandish statement, that's true, but in the possibility there was any truth to it, then, perhaps, Daphne Greengrass wasn't such a bad person after all.

* * *

Between Investment Club, Quidditch practice, returning Quirrell's broom, and questioning Ron (who, of course, had been most reluctant about disclosing the contents of his own nightmare in the third floor), in addition to his regular classes, a week passed in a flash for Harry.

And, in consequence, it took him all that time to realize Hermione was avoiding him.

He could not find her during mealtimes anymore, as she seemed to have already eaten before he arrived in the hall. Talking to her during classes was impossible; History of Magic, the only class the professor wouldn't mind if the students made conversation, she would sit away from their usual spot. He tried walking up to her in the corridors, but she was quicker on her feet then he had realized, as she would lose him amongst the flood of bodies leaving the lessons.

One night, after he had enough, he planted himself in the common room and waited until the late hours until almost curfew. All students had retired for the day, and only he and Ron remained, playing Wizard Chess to pass the time and watching the door like hawks. He had discussed the matter of Hermione with his friend, and, although the freckled boy had been as dismissive as ever regarding the bushy-haired girl, when the time came to ambush her and get some answers, he promptly sat down with Harry and waited.

A couple minutes until the prefects would start to hand out detentions to students caught wandering the corridors, there was a rattle outside the common room and the door came shrieking open. A wild mane of brown hair crossed the portrait of the Fat Lady and halted when i sighted the two boys sitting by the fire. They looked between themselves, the boys and the girl, for heavy pregnant seconds and then, as if they were strangers who happened to share the same classes, she nodded their way and set off up the stairs to the female dormitories.

"Hermione, wait!" shouted Harry, bolting from the armchair and bounding to the foot of the stairway, Ron right behind him.

Hermione froze on her feet and turned slowly. Her face was devoid of emotion he could identify.

"Can I help you with something, Harry?" she spoke then.

Harry frowned but didn't let himself be intimidated. "We need to talk about what happened on Halloween."

She shifted her eyes to the sides and back again in an almost imperceptible motion, letting him know she was more anxious than she wanted to appear.

"Oh, that," she gulped and forced a smile. "Thanks for helping me out back there, you're lifesavers. Now, I really need to get going, I'm pretty tired – goodnight."

She turned and took a few steps before Harry's echoing shout stopped her in her tracks again.

"Hermione!"

When she looked back, it was with visible effort to remain calm. She took a deep breath before speaking.

"Lower your voice! Do you want to wake up the whole Tower?"

"If that's what it takes for you to talk to me."

"What do you even wanna talk about? Do you want a thank you? I just gave it to you. Do you want an apology? I'm sorry you two put yourselves in danger trying to help me, even though I didn't ask you to."

"Will you stop being so stubborn for a second?!" bristled Harry.

"No, because I have nothing to say and I don't want to hear anything. I was stupid and I've learned my lesson. I don't need anything else, certainly not your pity. Now, if you'll excuse me!" Hermione snapped.

She twisted again and stomped away, with no obvious intention of turning back this time. Harry was about to call out again, but Ron stopped him, putting a hand on his shoulder. The redhead laid a single foot on the first step of the staircase, and, to Harry's immense bewilderment, there was a loud, alarm-like noise, and the steps turned into some sort of long slide on would have no trouble finding at a water-park. He heard a yelp and looked up just in time to see Hermione sliding down towards them. She came to a stop at their feet, resting on her belly.

He shot a look at Ron, at which the boy mouthed a "Tell you later."

Hermione shot up to her feet like an angry lion, face flustered red and hair bushier than ever.

"Are you barking mad?!" she barked. "Can't you two take no for an answer once in your lives and let. People. Be."

The boys remained in silence for a moment, waiting for the girl to cool down. She crossed her arms and glanced about the stairway to the entrance to the girl's dormitory upstairs. A couple heads came peering out to assert the situation, but didn't seem to find anything interesting and went back inside.

"Now you really woke up everyone, are you satisfied?" Hermione said with an unimpressed air. "It'll take awhile for them to go back to normal, so you might just as well say whatever you want to say."

Harry and Ron shared a look, and the black haired boy took a step forward. "Hermione, we know who told you to go to the third floor on Halloween," he said, cutting to the chase.

Hermione's eyes softened at his revelation, and she looked away. Arms still crossed, she seemed to deflate as she gave a long sigh. "I figured you would."

"I just wanna ask – why?" Harry asked with a slight frown.

"It looked like a great academic opportunity," she replied, shrugging.

"Enough to go after the Holy Grail on your own?" Harry insisted. "Weren't you the one who said it was a waste of time, better be focusing on our studies instead?"

"Yes, Harry, it was worth going back on my words for."

Harry shook his head. "No, scratch that – why were you even taking orders from those people? You must have known they didn't want you to join."

"Clubs like that are full of people like Malfoy and Parkinson; it would be no fun even if you did get in," added Ron.

"Geez, I know, okay?" Hermione said, voice anguished. "I just – I didn't think it would be like this."

Harry could guess what 'like this' meant if the word 'muggle-born' being thrown around the way it was happened to be any indication.

"I thought... once I got here things would be different," she continued. "Professor McGonagall said every Wizard and Witch got by on their own merit, and that knowledge of Magic was what mattered to us. I believed her – she is such a great witch, that I ever entertained the thought of becoming her apprentice one day – and I believed her that I had just found a world with a lot of other people like me. Even you, Harry, were so nice back in London; I was sure Professor McGonagall words were a reality, but then I got here...

"I found out you were the exception. In the train, people already recoiled when I said my parents are muggles, and it didn't get better in the castle. The girls in the dorm just want to talk about nails, and clothes, and celebrities. They're just like the other girls from my old school. I – I couldn't befriend them at all. You were still the same, and even Ron was… tolerable sometimes, so I thought people just had a hard time accepting newcomers into the Wizarding World. I kept my head high and continued applying for the club, thinking they just needed time to get used to me. But then you started to change too. Not to me, but people started accepting you – the Quidditch team and our House; even Greengrass began warming up to you in Potions, even if she likes ordering you around a bit too much.

"That was when I knew it isn't a matter of time; it's a matter of blood, isn't it, Ron? Surely you know, someone with old blood like you," she said, shooting a glance at the boy, eyes glistening with tears. The redhead winced. "Because I'm muggle-born it will never matter how good I am, or how hard I study; it will never be enough. I went after that stupid Grail to prove them wrong; I knew they wouldn't accept me because of that, but what should I do? Was there anything else I could do, uh, Harry? Ron? It just the same as it ever was, it will never get better!"

Harry and Ron listened in silence as she finished her tale, and she wept freely then. He understood exactly what she meant – Hell, a younger Harry pretty much agreed with everything she had said. Still…

"No, Hermione, you're wrong," said Harry, serious and staring deep into her chocolate eyes.

"Oh, am I?" she spoke, voice cracking.

"Yes, yes you are, because – because things do get better."

"How would you know that? I was a weirdo in the muggle world and I'm a weirdo here – nothing has changed!"

"I know what it's like to be a weirdo too!" he said, emotion creeping into his voice. "I've been a freak my whole life, and I didn't even know why. I couldn't make friends with the other kids – I was just a midget wearing clothes too big for him. My relatives hate magic so much they'd rather I never came to Hogwarts and stayed there, where no one wants me, not even them, and stay a freak forever! But I did come here and I'm glad I didn't give up back then when I wanted to, because now – now I can learn magic and play Quidditch, and I got to met you, and Ron, and the lads in the dorm, and Professor Quirrell, and everybody else. Don't you tell me it never gets better, because I absolutely refuse to accept we all should just give up and stay in our cupboards for the rest of our lives!"

A stunned Hermione stared back at him with widened eyes. Harry didn't know why he suddenly decided to pour his heart out like that; the plan had been to just offer their support and say they were there for her if she needed, but something in the way she spoke set something off inside Harry, a feeling he was all too familiar with and had been present with him through most of his childhood. It was so then, with heavy breaths, that Harry said what he meant to say and, deep in his heart, had wanted to hear all those years before:

"Screw those people! If they don't want you – if they don't want to be your friend, then it's their loss! You don't need them! I know how great you are, and if they won't, then I'll be it – I'll be your greatest friend in the entire world!"

For a few painfully slow seconds there was only silence after his outburst; the green-eyed boy and the brown-haired girl exchanging looks of determination and surprise. Truth be told, Harry had exaggerated a bit – he didn't even know the girl that well – but he had no intention of taking his words back, not when the image of his younger self could still be seen so clearly in her.

Finally, she broke her gaze, shaking her hand and laughing ruefully. "That was so childish it was almost funny," she murmured.

"I meant every word."

"Then," she looked up again, a hesitant smile playing in the corner of her lips. "You better not mind if I take you up on that."

Harry grinned. "I won't. Oh, and Ron too. He wants to look tough, but he was really worried."

They both turned to the redhead, who looked back at Harry like he had just been betrayed.

He cleared his throat. "I wasn't really worried, but I suppose it's bad form to abandon someone from my own House, and I already stood here listening to your sob stories anyway, I guess I can stick around."

Harry smiled at his friend and Hermione threw him an angry-but-not-really glare.

Whatever else could be said that night would have to wait for the next day because the next moment the door of the Tower opened to reveal the sixth year prefects returning from their night shift.

"You firsties still outta bed? You have any idea what time it is?" the boy prefect said.

Apparently, it was more than late, and the older students had to make them promise to not be found out of bed again at that time, to avoid deducting points from their own house.

As they were rounded up to their dormitories, Harry felt a tug on his sleeve and twisted to see what it was.

All of sudden, Hermione enveloped him in a tight, firm hug. Her hair was in his face and he could barely move his arms due to the pressure. He heard a soft, throaty "thank you" against his ear, and the hug was over; the next moment she was being led away up to the female dormitory by the older girl.

He stood there like an idiot for a couple seconds, unsure of what to do and already too late to do anything. Later, he was also dragged away by the male prefect, who complained all the way to the dormitory about rowdy first years. When Harry finally laid down on his bed and stared up at the ceiling, his the exhaustion came unbidden upon him. It was a tiring not of the body, for his muscles did not ache, but of the mind – of the sort you feel after crying for a prolonged amount of time. Who knew letting out your feelings could be so demanding? He fell asleep not long after that.

And that was the memory of Harry's first hug. It was a night he would cherish for the rest of his life, for although the Wizarding World never became what that first Hermione, the one he met at Diagon Alley, imagined it to be, it was still a magical place – to those who knew who their friends were.


	8. The Ghost of Christmas that Never Were

AN: Big thanks to daphne24 for beta-reading. Leave a review to tell me what you think.

Chapter Eight: The Ghost of Christmas that Never Were

December arrived in a curtain of snow. Despite the cold weather, Harry had taken to wake up most days of the week thrashing about his bed, a cold sweat covering his body. Night after night was filled with dreams of a giant, overwhelming full moon. Sometimes it would emit a brilliant emerald light, others it would be deep bloody red. These dreams were both disturbing and exciting to the raven-haired boy. On one hand, they filled him with an immeasurable sense of dread, on the other he wished his misadventure at the end of October had somehow awakened dormant memories inside him from ten years before. However, no matter how intriguing these dreams were, they remained useless as there was no way he could make head or tails of them.

A good thing about the end of the term was the numerous competitions many clubs were holding before their member returned home for the holidays. In turn, the betting scene also received a relative boon, and by the time classes ended and students prepared to leave the school Harry had profited a quite a sum of gold, up to almost the initial quantity Fred and George had gifted him. So Harry sat on a reasonable number of almost hundred gold coins. It was a lot of money, something no student had any right to own in school, and Harry had all the rich gambling addicted kids to thank for being able to buy decent Christmas presents for his closest friends. Ron and Hermione would not be staying in Hogwarts for Christmas.

Hermione had said she would like to spend it with her family and Ron and his brothers were to return to the Gryffindor Estate for their yearly social Christmas party. Harry was the only first-year Gryffindor boy to stay at Hogwarts, something Draco Malfoy was all too eager to remind him about in the corridors, conjecturing - and rightly so - that he had no one to return to. It was at one of these moments where Malfoy had not paid attention to his surroundings because the next Daphne, who had been walking a few feet behind them, shot a Leglock Jinx at Malfoy. He had fell face first to the floor, then, humiliated, ran away red-faced. The girl was one of the few students who would remain at Hogwarts along with Harry.

On the night before everyone would be leaving the castle, Harry walked into the common room to find Hermione seated by the fireplace, a book in her hands and a look of comfortable enjoyment. He sat down next to her.

"Hey, Hermione," he said. "I thought you'd be packing for tomorrow."

"Don't be ridiculous, Harry, I had it finished ages ago," Hermione said. "Unlike some people we know."

Harry gave short laugh and looked up at the boy's dormitory upstairs. Fred had guaranteed Harry his younger brother would only start packing in the morning before having to leave. Now, Harry wished he had taken the redhead on the bet.

"So you managed to bully him into doing it today?" he asked.

"I didn't bully anyone, Harry," she replied. "It's just the responsible thing to pack your things in advance in case something goes wrong."

Harry laughed again but didn't respond. In the past month, Harry and Ron had kept their promise of sticking by her and got to know her much better than the nagging and homework-obsessed girl she appeared to be. Worrying and pulling their ears when they slacked in class was indeed part of her personality, but she was also caring and more often than not knew how to take a joke. She wasn't nearly as bossy as she had been before though, and Harry wondered if that was how she really was or if their heated talk that night had somehow softened her.

Harry was enjoying the warmth of the fire when, looking at the girl, he noticed the book she was reading wasn't the usual academics ones he was used to finding in her possession. Instead, it had a title that implied it was a piece of fiction.

"What're you reading? Did I miss that one on the school list?" he teased.

Her cheeks cloured a light pink. "I read other works too, for your information," she replied. "This one's from a muggle author I asked my parents to send to me. It's kind of a romance of King Arthur's life; it's mostly fiction based on historical records, and not really that historically accurate. I read it once when I was seven, but got interested again recently."

"Can I see?" Harry asked. She closed the book and passed it over him. It was a long book, well over six hundred pages. It both amazed and terrified Harry the girl had tackled the monster at the tender age of seven.

"Is it good?"

She gave a faint shrug."It's alright. I don't like the ending; I wish Lancelot and Guinevere ended up together," Hermione said. "And it ends just before an imagined battle between King Arthur and Mordred, but we never see it."

From history lessons, he remembered Mordred never was a prominent figure in the court of Camelot and retreated into his lordship of the Orkney Islands in the later years of his life. Though he still was one of the most famous knights of the round table from that time, largely because of claims about how he had been an illegitimate son of the King and the true heir to the throne. Harry found himself reevaluating the truth of the legend. If there was more to it, like how everyone was telling them, he could understand Hermione's inflated interest on that particular era of Britain's history.

"Sounds interesting," he said, returning the book to the girl.

"Sure," she said, rolling her eyes. "It's just – with all this talk about the Holy Grail, I thought I could do a little investigation, and the library books don't tell much. I thought I could branch out. Besides, don't you find it strange?"

Harry stared. "Strange? What do you mean?"

"Honestly, Harry," she sighed, exasperated. "I'm talking about Professor Dumbledore bringing the Grail here. Don't you find it weird that one of the most powerful – if not the most powerful – magical artefact was brought to Hogwarts, and no one said a word about it? The media didn't even cover it!"

Harry furrowed his brow. Now, that she mentioned it, it _was_ strange that the headmaster managed to recover an object capable of producing a miracle and brought it to Hogwarts just to give it away, instead of handing it to the Crown or even the government. He remembered the words of the Shadow Mage.

"Isn't someone trying to steal it?" he argued. "D'you think he hid it here to protect it? Doesn't make sense though, he told us to go after it."

"Yeah, but has someone managed to get it yet?"

Harry shook his head.

"We're not meant to get it," Hermione said and stared deep into the fire. "Harry, I think it's a trap."

"You think the thief is inside Hogwarts?" he stared at Hermione with wide eyes.

"I don't know, Harry."

Harry's curiosity was piked though. "Who do you think is it?"

There was a loud noise as Ron threw himself on the couch next to them, looking - or wanting to - like someone who just went through a long and painful ordeal.

Harry arched an eyebrow. "You're finished, eh?"

"Yes. You'd think they'd teach us actual useful stuff first, like making the trunk pack itself." He groaned. "What're you two talking about?"

"Hermione thinks the thief trying to steal the Grail is in Hogwarts."

"I didn't-"

"It's probably Snape," said Ron scowling. "Telling you, that guy's evil."

"You think whoever gives break-homework is evil though." Harry chuckled and looked at Hermione to support his joke. The girl had an unusually serious expression as she stared into the fireplace. "Hermione?"

"Do you remember Halloween when we went up there on the third floor?" she said after a moment.

The boys shifted on their seats before nodding.

"It was Professor Quirrell and Snape who took us out," she continued. Ron nodded along but Harry tilted his head. That was news to him. "They took us to the Infirmary, and later Snape escorted me and Ron to the tower. Who told them we were there? The people who got us there in first place? I don't think so."

"So?" Ron asked, nonplussed.

"Think, Ron, we have a magical object, a potential thief, and an ex-Auror on the castle. The ex-Auror is seen with Snape around the place where the object is guarded, for no apparent reason. What do you think that means?"

"We got lucky they were close by?"

"Urgh, Ron, I swear the more tired you are, the stupider you get!" Hermione wailed.

"Hey!"

Unlike Ron though, Harry was very much awake, and the solution dawned on him like mana from the heavens. "Quirrell was chasing Snape."

His friends stopped arguing and turned to him. Hermione's face slowly opened in a smile.

"It's obvious if we think about it like a mystery novel," she spoke, making gestures in front of them. "There's the treasure, the Grail, the person who wants to guard it, Professor Dumbledore, the thief is unknown but close by; only the main character was missing, the detective. But Professor Quirrell used to be an agent of the law and just happened to be employed here this exact year."

"Hmm, that's a bit far-fetched," Ron said. "The only concrete you have there is that Quirrell used to be an Auror, which isn't even all that suspicious – Aurors are supposed to know a lot about dark magic anyway. What's gotten into you? I thought you'd be the last person to accuse a professor of anything."

Hermione flushed and made an irritated noise. "I'm not that naive, Ron."

"I agree with Ron, Hermione," Harry spoke up. She looked at him with surprise, clearly not expecting to defend her theory on two fronts, after Harry himself had arrived at the conclusion she wanted.

"I mean," continued Harry, running a hand through his hair. "Snape's a git, but hasn't he worked here for a thousand years? Why would he turn on Dumbledore so now?"

"Do you really have to ask? Did you forget what the reward is?" said Hermione.

"In that case, everyone's a suspect, not just Snape," reasoned Ron. Harry got an inkling he might be trying to prove the girl wrong for the 'stupid' comment back then.

Hermione reclined back in the chair and watched them over her nose. "Fine," she said in a dry voice. "I knew it wasn't a strong case."

Harry and Ron shared an amused look.

"That's why I did a little investigation." The boys snapped their heads back at her. She was watching them with a smug smile on the corner of her right lip. "Do you happen to know who Voldemort was?"

Harry shook his head. The name sounded familiar, like he had heard it before, but he couldn't quite place where.

"He was a dark wizard from the war," Ron replied.

"Not just any dark wizard," Hermione said, getting ready to lecture them. "His name appears in all wizarding modern history books I could find in the library. He was the personal adviser of Duke Greengrass during the war and the most powerful wizard fighting on Orkney's side. The books say only Professor Dumbledore could overcome him in a direct duel."

"Okay – great guy, but how does that relate to Snape?" said Ron, rushing her on.

"I'm getting there," hissed Hermione. She cleared her throat and continued. "He was also the one greatest alchemists from this century, so much he had his own group of followers who wanted to learn from him. They operated in Britain before the war and the occupied lands during it and were one the most respected circles of scholars in the wizarding world."

"What happened to him?" Harry asked, noticing how she spoke in the past tense.

Her expression darkened. "He died right as the war ended, about the same time as Duke Greengrass. After the surrender, when the forces of the king searched his labs and workshops, they found a lot of… disturbing things."

"What sort of disturbing things?" said Harry.

" _All_ sort of disturbing things. He had been already labelled a dark wizard during the war, but what the books say the Aurors found was enough to convict most of his followers for war crimes, even with the deal that the rebels soldiers wouldn't be persecuted. Real dark magic, Harry. Guess who's the only one of them walking free today that can be found any league close to Hogwarts?"

"... Snape?" said Ron, and the girl nodded. "Blimey, Snape's an arse, but to think he'd be an actual dark wizard."

"Language."

"Where did you find all this?" asked Harry, impressed the girl had gone through the trouble of researching all that information. Who knew his bushy-haired friend turn out to be such a mystery fan?

"Most of it is in _Rise and Fall of The Dark Arts_ and _Grea tWizarding Events of the Twentieth Century_ ," she replied, trying to sound casual and not like she went through twenty books. "I can get my copy, and we can look at it, there's more there."

"It's okay, Hermione, we believe you," Ron added, raising his palm. She squinted her eyes at him, but Harry spoke up before she could chide them.

"There's a problem. Quirrell told me she doesn't know what's guarding the Grail. Shouldn't she know it if Dumbledore hired her to catch the thief?" Harry reasoned, remembering his talk with her one month before.

"Not necessarily," Hermione countered as soon as he closed his mouth. "If Professor Dumbledore really wants to keep it secret, it makes sense he would tell absolutely no one."

"I see," Harry conceded, and Hermione puffed up again, pleased with herself. "If Quirrell's here to stop him like you said, then we don't have to worry, because there's no way he can get past her."

A teasing smile formed on Ron's face, and even Hermione's right side lips upturned slightly.

"What?" Harry asked as they stared at him.

"Nothing," Ron said, still grinning.

"Leave him, Ron, I think it's cute," Hermione said, raising up. "Harry's right, we probably don't need to worry. I'm going to bed, have a good night."

"Yeah, I'm gonna go too," Ron also. "My back's killing me, it's like I just build the pyramids or something. See you tomorrow, mate."

Both left for their respective dormitories, leaving an embarrassed and indignant Harry Potter behind.

"Who are you calling cute?!"

Ron and Hermione left the next morning, along with most the school. Harry was one of the few souls wandering the corridors of the castle and found having Hogwarts to himself wasn't quite as fun as he had thought. There was nothing to do to ward off the boredom. He spent his days between sleeping in late, playing with Hedwig outside of Hogwarts, and trying to get the portraits of the castle to help him figure out the mystery of the Grail. So it was with no small amount of excitement that Harry regarded the presents he found at the foot of his bed on the morning of Christmas Eve.

It was a small pile, but bigger than any he had ever dared to hope. He didn't bother changing out of his pyjamas before he started unwrapping the packages. By coincidence, the first one was from his relatives, the usual half-a-pound they gave him every year; he threw it on his bed table. The second was from Hermione and much larger; it consisted of a new copy of the book she was reading the night before she went home and a big box of Chocolate Frogs featuring extra rare cards. He grinned at the irony, because she had mentioned how her dentist parents let her eat sweets once in a blue moon, and now she went and gifted him a big box of them. He wondered if she expected him to leave some for her to eat outside her parents' sights. Pushing the box aside for later, he moved on to the third present. Almost as tall as him, it was by far the biggest parcel of the bunch, and, judging by the format, the most exciting. He unwrapped it to find himself holding the handle of a broomstick. Made of a blueish ebony, its twigs long and smooth with their tips tinged blue, looking much like a flickering flame every time he moved the broom, and the name Cleansweep Eight written near the base; it was possibly the most beautiful thing he had ever seen.

A smaller and softer parcel had fallen from inside the broom's parcel, a note attached to it. Harry picked it up.

 _Merry Christmas, Harry. Hope you're having fun at the castle, or at least more than me. This place is so boring this time of the year, with all the help going about setting things up for Christmas Eve, we're basically confined to our rooms and the backyard. Ginny, my sister, has been driving me up the walls asking for Hogwarts stories. I think I can count on my right hand the time's she's left alone in my room. Kinda wish her friend had come spend the month with us again, even if she's a bit of a loony, just to get Ginny off my back. She says she wants to meet you, so at least it's you she's gonna be bothering if mum agrees to let me invite you over the Summer. Fred and George are being their usual git selves, all hollered up in their room, doing Merlin knows what. There are explosions from time to time, which leads to mum barging in, yelling at them to cut it out. The good part is Charlie came home for Christmas and has been telling us all about his job with dragons. Anyway, I hope you like your present, it's the new Cleansweep model, that just came out last month. It's not as manoeuvrable as the Nimbus, but it's faster. Mum's a bit of a Quidditch freak (she played goalie in school and even made team captain!), and when I said you're the new house Seeker but don't have your own broom she went mad, even more after I told her you single-handed won us the first victory against Slytherin since Charlie graduated. Hope you're having a good time, and see you back in January._

 _-Ron_

 _P.S: I'll have Winfred deliver you some cake after the party. Mum and Calpurnia make it themselves, and they're pretty good._

Harry was at a loss for words. Ron had sent him a brand new model broom for Christmas and would be receiving two inexpensive pairs of snowman-gloves in return. It had cost him a good ten crowns, not that a small amount of money, but still nothing close to the hundreds he knew the broom had cost. Thanking his friend in his mind, he settled for opening the rest of the presents. He opened the soft parcel the note had been attached to. As he imagined, it was a sweater of a vivid red colour and a big H on the front. A lion rested on the bridge of the H, chewing on a Golden Snitch. Harry put it on at once, relishing the warm feeling of the wool.

The last present was also light but even softer, inside a silvery and silky piece of cloth. Intrigued why anyone would send him a cloak, he picked up the note that came with the gift; it read: "Your father left this in my possession before he died. It is time it was returned to you. Use it well. A very Merry Christmas to you." There was no signature, but if whoever had sent it him was telling the truth, Harry was grateful to possess something from his parents. As he tried it on, he saw his body disappear under the cloth with wide eyes; the cloak made him invisible.

Since it was snowing outside, it was easy to decide which one of the gifts he would abuse first. After thinking for about a minute, he found out there wasn't any place he particularly wanted to go. He considered visiting Snape's chambers to dye his socks pink, but discarded the plan after weighing the danger; with that nose, Snape could probably smell him miles away, and Harry wasn't too keen on parting with the cloak so soon. In the end, he stowed it together with his Cleansweep until a better opportunity for their use presented itself.

Despite Dumbledore and Professor Flitwick's attempts at humour, Christmas dinner was a bleak affair to Harry. He sat together with the other Gryffindors who had stayed behind, but their conversation was stiff and unexciting. On the other side of the Hall, Daphne went through a similar experience, although her Slytherin counterparts seemed to make an effort to try to please and grab her attention. She mostly ignored them, eating in silence. The food was good, great even, but after stuffing himself he found no reason to stay at the table and excused himself.

Returning to his room and looking outside the castle windows, he noticed the lights were on inside Hagrid's hut. He wondered if the professor had returned, or if he just returned for Christmas. It was almost curfew, and there was no way he could go there and return before Filch would start stalking the corridors. Mind working fast, he decided it was too good an opportunity to pass on. Grinning, he hurried to his room to grab the cloak.

Walking under the falling flocks of snow, Harry clutched the invisibility cloak close to his body, just in case a strong wind blew at the same time someone happened to be looking outside. He reached the big door of the hut and, after stashing the cloak inside one of his pockets, knocked hard.

The door opened after a moment and, to Harry's mild disappointment, a tall blonde girl appeared in front of him. She frowned when she saw his shivering form.

"Harry Potter?"

"Hmn, hi," he greeted through puffs of white breath. "Sorry, I thought Professor Hagrid had come back."

Bianca Hufflepuff stared at him. "I told you he wouldn't return until next September," she said. They watched each other for a couple seconds in silence. Harry shivered some more. "Do you wanna come inside?"

Harry looked back at the castle and his fading footsteps being covered by the snow. He had come that far, he could wait a bit before going back, if only to warm up.

"Sure." He nodded. She stepped out of the way, inviting him in.

The living room was warmer than outside at least. The fireplace was lit, and a rocking chair slowly swung back and forth by itself next to it. A radio played an old-sounding Christmas tune atop the drawer.

"Have a seat, I need to look at the cookies," she said, making for the kitchen. "Nice sweater, by the way."

Harry sat down on the couch. The house hadn't changed much since his visit back in September, at the start of classes. Everything was in the same place, even the blankets he had seen the first time laid still tangled beside him.

She returned minutes later holding a tray of cookies, a jug of milk and two empty glasses.

"They're just off the oven, but I've cooled them with magic," she offered, placing the tray in front of him.

Harry had just eaten a pretty great dinner, but the cookies smelled so good, he caught himself thinking maybe he wasn't all that full. She poured milk in one of the glasses and put it on the coach's arm by his side.

"Thanks," Harry said, munching on a biscuit.

"You're welcome," Bianca replied. She sat on the rocking chair and seemed to appreciate the warmth for a moment. "My family has this tradition of consuming chocolate cookies and warm milk on Christmas Eve; I wanted to try making them myself."

Harry took a sip of the milk. "This is your first time? They're really good."

"Thanks."

"Why didn't you go home with your sister? I don't think I saw her on the Hufflepuff table for dinner," he said.

"Adamaris has a place she... really wants to be right now," she replied, reclining further into the chair. "Besides, it's my duty as Hagrid's apprentice to take care of the creatures."

"Don't you mean student? I guess it's okay if you're his friend, but isn't a bit much to ask you to stay here even on Christmas?"

"No, I mean apprentice," she said and frowned at his puzzled look. "Don't tell me…?"

"I grew up with my relatives, they're muggles."

"I see," Bianca said. "Wizards and witches can choose to have apprentices. It's mostly a show for other wizards since no rituals are involved or anything shady like that, but it acknowledges a bond between two magicals. It's a tradition for a wizard or a witch to have only one apprentice, so most just choose their firstborn child."

"So that's why he left you to take care of his things..." Harry mused, then snapped his head in surprise. "Wait, you're his daughter?"

Bianca shook her head, "Oh, no, I'm not. I met Hagrid in my second year, after choosing Care of Magical Creatures as my elective," she said. "Hagrid doesn't have a family, as far as I know."

"You two must be close then," Harry observed.

"We get along; he needed an extra hand and I happen to like animals."

Harry nodded slowly in understating. They stayed in silence, comfortable in listening to the wireless playing its Christmas repertoire and enjoying the milk and biscuits. The snow fell a little heavier outside and, together with the warmth of the fire, it cast a cosy atmosphere inside the hut. Everything, from the warm milk to the seasonal music and even the slow way the girl spoke cooperated to drag Harry into a tranquil, relaxed mood he hadn't been in a long time.

"I've been having these weird dreams lately," he admitted, in a low voice. Bianca opened her eyes and stared at him. After a moment, he spoke again. "I feel like they come every time I fall asleep. Sometimes, they're so strong I spend the whole day thinking about them, and others I just can't even seem to remember them."

"When did they start?" she asked.

"Since I came to Hogwarts – they were mostly flashes until about a month two months ago when I…" Harry trailed off, his brow knitting. He exhaled strongly. "Is that normal for wizards?"

"Not especially. I suspect we're just like muggles in that regard," she replied.

Harry rested his head on the couch, facing the ceiling. The flames crackled in the fireplace. "What if something is causing it? Is that possible?"

"Of course."

Harry faced her again. "Anything dark?"

"All of them," she replied, expression growing slightly concerned. "Compulsory dreaming isn't something to be taken lightly – if you think you came in contact with dark magic you should see Madam Pomfrey or Professor Snape."

Harry almost groaned. "What about a creature?" he said, ignoring her advice.

"Many. Too many to remember off the top of my head."

Harry threw himself back on the couch in irritation, lips pressing together in a pout. It wasn't like it was the girl's fault he was having so little progress in the pursuit of information about his parents. He hoped that finding out whatever was causing his dreams would help on that front, seeing as he started flooding his nights after Halloween. All he seemed to do was run into dead ends. Professor Quirrell had told him to not return to the third floor, and now Bianca didn't look like she would be able to help him.

The clock read almost twelve on the wall, and noticing the snowing had stopped, Harry got up to leave.

"I think I'll be going now," he said. "Thanks for the milk and food."

"Are you sure? It's way past the curfew," said the blond, not raising up from the rocking chair. "You can sleep here if you want, there are some mattresses on the back."

"It's alright, I don't think I'll run into Filch. Merry Christmas, Bianca."

"Merry Christmas, Harry."

Despite what Harry said, and his use of the Invisibility Cloak, the travel back through the corridors of Hogwarts was not so uneventful. Peeves halted when Harry tried to pass unnoticed by him and looked about as if trying to sense him, and Filch was blocking one of the shortcut stairways to the higher floors from the main entrance, mumbling about what a Christmas gift it would be to catch students out of bed. Lastly, Madam Norris followed him around, giving no regards to his invisibility, and Harry had to tuck fast into one of the classrooms to lose her.

Which led him to the discovery of a very special mirror and the best present he received that day.

* * *

The next day dawned in much nicer weather than the previous weeks of December, the sun getting a respite from the claws of winter, to grace Hogwarts with its warm embrace. As much as Harry desired to return as fast as possible to the room of the mirror and see his family again, the prospect of taking his new broom out was too endearing to ignore. Who could say when they would have another day like this?

He made his way down the muddy and slippery path leading to Quidditch pitch. When he arrived there he found out someone already had the same idea as him and already flew high amidst the stands. Harry mounted the Cleansweep Eight and ascended it up to the other person, delighting in the amazing acceleration provided by the broomstick. In a couple seconds, they were at a level, and Harry was not really surprised to stare at the face of one Daphne Greengrass.

"Hey, Daphne," he greeted as he went closer. Though she had relinquished the goggles, she had her long hair in a ponytail, something she seemed to do every time she flew.

"Potter," she replied. "I didn't take you as the type who is committed enough to be practising on his own."

"Funny how that is coming from the one who lost the last game, but I guess you do need to go that extra mile," he teased with a smirk.

She squinted her eyes, looking to be thinking of something to retort back until she noticed the broom he sitting on. Her eyebrows raised by an inch. "Is that the new Cleansweep?"

"Yup. It's the fastest model out now," he said and gave a lap around her to demonstrate.

"The tail's pretty cool…" she mumbled, then puffed her cheeks. "The Nimbus always has better overall performance though."

"Meh – speed where it's really at."

"Are ye sure? How 'bout we pick a game so I can wipe the floor you?" Daphne challenged.

"Okay, we can try that if you manage to… catch me!" Harry shot past the Slytherin, grin slicing his face. She pulled her own broom and followed suit after him.

She didn't catch him, but they did have a delightful game of chase, hundreds of feet above the ground. After their game, Harry agreed to practice with her with one of the Bludgers she had brought, though he suspected the blond just wanted to watch him get hit. All in all, it was a fun afternoon and Harry finally got a chance to fly on the famous Nimbus Two Thousand, as they exchanged brooms to let the other try a different model. the Nimbus' speed and manoeuvrability were no joke and deserved all the praise it got, but he still preferred the faster top speed and acceleration of his Cleansweep. Daphne didn't relent though, saying she preferred the Nimbus.

Only when it got too dark and cold, did they decide to finish and return to the castle. They walked the way back feeling tired and sweaty, but with an odd feeling of satisfaction, though they had missed the evening dinner and would have to another way to fill their if on cue, Harry's stomach groaned in protest when they reached the door to the Great Hall.

"I can't believe we forgot dinner," he moaned, scratching his head. "Well, I guess I'll have to content myself with the Chocolate Frogs Hermione sent me yesterday – see you around, Daphne."

He turned to leave but stopped when he felt a tug on the hem of his sleeve.

"Come, I know a place," she pulled him by his arm, all but dragging him together with her.

She led him down a marble staircase he hadn't visited before, then took a sharp left and kept going until they stepped onto a broad corridor, where numerous giant portraits of food. She put a hand on her chin and looked around, wondering aloud, "Which one was it again?"

"Where are we going?"

"The kitchen – now shush I'm trying to remember," she said, going from painting to painting. She halted in front of a giant fruit bowl and began to scratch the green pear. Harry got the odd sensation she was trying to tickle it, then the sensation proved to be a reality when the fruit started to squirm and giggle. It turned into a doorknob a moment later. Daphne pulled the painting open.

The kitchen would be a carbon-copy of the Great Hall if not for the huge brick oven by the end of it and the little beings that watched Harry and Daphne walk in through the entrance. They were many and between two to three feet tall, thin legs and arms, and big disproportional heads with large, pointy ears they all looked almost exactly alike. Though they did not appear to have any hair on their body, they wore very little clothing - if a toga (that in truth looked to be a tea towel) stapled with the Hogwarts crest could be called such.

"Hi, hmm," Daphne spoke, eyes darting between the creatures. "We missed dinner. Could we get something to eat, please?"

The little beings jolted into attention with high-pitched cries of "Students!", and at once he and Daphne were led by the hand to sit down on one of the four long tables. After they were comfortable, a number of the creatures surrounded them, watching with expectation.

"What would mister and miss likes for eating?" one of them spoke.

"A sandwich for me, please," Daphne said, then turned to Harry. "You?"

Many big heads also turned.

"Can I have a cake? Please," he asked. They all bowed until their long noses almost touched the ground to and left, to return almost all at once with trays of many flavoured pieces cakes, types of sandwich, tea and milk.

"Wow!" Harry exclaimed.

Daphne smiled, "They're great, aren't they?"

She thanked them, and they bowed again and left to do what they were doing before Harry and Daphne arrived, which seemed to be cleaning the huge pile of pots, pans and plates.

"What are they?" Harry asked as he cut a piece of cake.

"They're house-elves. They take care of the food and the cleaning here in Hogwarts," she replied, pouring some tea for herself.

"Oh, I thought someone, like Professor McGonagall or Professor Sprout, did some magic to make the food."

"You can't create food with magic; Wizards can cook with magic, but it's much more practical to use these guys, and they're better at it too."

"I see... how did you find out about this place?" he asked, impressed.

She shrugged. "Tracey likes to eat at the most inopportune hours. She dragged me here once just before it was time for bed, saying she wanted muffins. It's good she spends so much time at that fencing club of hers, otherwise, she'd have inflated by now."

"I'm glad she did then." Harry laughed, trying one of the sandwiches. "How did she find it, or did someone tell her? I bet a lot of people would like to know a place to get food all the time."

"She was trying to prank a Hufflepuff, stalked her right back to their Common Room, but got caught in the intruders' charm. One of the elves found her sometime later covered in vinegar and brought her here to help her clean off. She's been using the kitchen as her base of operations ever since."

"She sounds like fun."

Daphne snorted, half-amused, half-irritated. "She's a brat. Always trying to catch me in some practical joke, or bugging me about-"

"About what?" Harry asked, curious.

"Nothing," she said and changed the subject. "So, Potter, that Cleansweep, was it a present?"

"Yeah, Ron sent it over to me," he told her, smiling. "He said his mum's a huge Quidditch fan and doesn't want her house losing the cup anymore."

"Figures," she pouted, but then smirked at him. "She shouldn't have bothered, because I now know all your movements and shall squash ye next match."

"You mean next year? Too bad, by then I'll have improved so much they'll forget Slytherin even had a Seeker."

"We'll see, Potter."

"Bring it on, Daphne."

The elves brought them even more snacks, always bowing and curtsying, looking delighted the students were enjoying their food. Harry filled his plate again, before speaking:

"What about you, any good presents?" he asked. She had to be at least as wealthy as Ron, it was just a given she would get something amazing.

"Nothing interesting," she said, shrugging, a somewhat saddened expression coming into her face, though she tried to hide it.

Then again, if she was anything like himself – as she had demonstrated all through the day – perhaps she would prefer something more meaningful; after all, hadn't she lost her father about the same time he lost his own? Seeing his family was the best thing about that Christmas, and he had spent the day counting the hours until he could go back to the mirror.

If it works for me, Harry thought, maybe it works for her too.

"Hey, Daphne," he called, and she raised her eyes at him. "Do you wanna see something?"

"See what?"

"Just come with me," he grabbed her hand and stood up.

They said goodbye to the house-elves, and she let him pull her out of the kitchen and up the floors to where the room of the mirror was located. Along the way, he tried to explain what he had found:

"It's this huge mirror – really huge, almost as tall as the ceiling," he was saying, "And when you look into it you can see your whole family – your dad, and mum, and granddad, and grandma too."

Daphne had her brows furrowed, looking sceptical. Harry had the exact the location of the room memorized the night before so that he would not have to spend hours retracing his steps when he returned the next day. In minutes, they reached the suit of armour that signalled the right door.

Harry walked to the mirror, pulling Daphne with him.

"This is how you do it, you stand in front of it and-" And there they stood, smiling at him with all the love in the world. "There, do you see them?"

"I don't see anything, Potter, just you."

"Are you sure?"

"Of course I'm sure, it's just a mirror," she snapped. "All I see is ye and I."

"But they're right there – all of them –, I don't get it," he said, shaking his head. Maybe only he could see it? Only the person could see their family? He stepped aside for her. "Here, you try it. Just stand where I was."

She moved over with some reluctance, looking annoyed. "I swear, Potter, if this is your sick idea of a jo-"

She halted mid-speech, mouth agape, eyes going wide. Harry watched her as she took small, shy steps forward and slowly stretched her right arm forward, stopping just before of touching the surface, as if afraid to do so.

"Do you see them?" he breathed.

"Yes, I do. My father, and mother, and – and my baby sister," she whispered back, eyes unmoving and fixed on the mirror's reflection. "And mum – oh, Harry – mum, she looks healthy again, and beautiful, like in the pictures. She's hugging me. My sister – I've never seen before – she looks so much like mum..."

Her voice was so heavy with emotion, Harry felt like he was intruding into something very private and special for the girl. Still, he was happy he could share with her his amazing discovering.

Suddenly, she turned her back on the mirror, wiping away the tears before they could fall.

"I want to leave."

Harry was confused again. "What? Why? We just got here, and it's not even curfew yet, we can still stay for at least a couple more hours."

He couldn't understand why anyone would not agree to that.

"I don't want to. This is not real, it's just a trick of that mirror – it will never happen," she flared. "My father is dead, and I reckon your parents are too, aren't they? It's a waste of time."

Harry scowled and pressed his lips together. "It's not a waste of time. I'm staying."

"Fine, suit yerself."

She walked away from the room. through narrowed eyes, Harry watched her go, but inside his heart, he knew he had already forgiven her. He had wished nothing more in his life than being with his parents and to feel their love; perhaps, it was not such a case with her. They were not so different, but they were in no way the same person.

He turned to the mirror and went back to watching his family.

* * *

Snow returned the next morning, and even under heavy blanket Harry felt the chill of the air. It was almost dark, with the grey clouds hiding the weak winter sun, and he had to struggle to get out of bed to start the day. He had stayed up all night watching the mirror and planned to do return even earlier.

He was glad when he saw that Ron had made good on his promise and a package laid at the edge of his bed. It was remnants of various cakes or many flavours, and quite delicious just like his friend had said. Harry gulped them down with fervour, making a mess of himself. After saving some for dinner, he picked up the card the had come together with the parcel.

It was a moving photograph of Ron and the small red-haired girl he had seen at the platform Nine and Three Quarters, wearing the gloves covered in white and standing over a podium made of piled up snow; the girl in the first position, and Ron on the second. In the back of the picture, there was a brief message from Ron, thanking Harry for the best gift he had received that year and telling him how Ginny had loved the gloves and that his mum wanted a word with him for giving her children something to drench the house with. It made Harry smile, relieving the boy his friend had liked his present.

He spent the rest day as if like in a haze, sprawled on his bed and counting the minutes until night came. He neither saw Daphne during dinner nor did he look for her. When it was time to move, he took the Invisibility Cloak out and made his way to the room of the mirror in an almost desperate gait. He sank down to the floor in front of his parents and basked in the sight of their smiles and affections.

No more than minutes later, he heard footsteps walking in the room behind him.

He turned, expecting to see the blonde Slytherin, already with a smart remark on his lips. He was wrong though, for it was Professor Quirrell who stood in the archway of the door.

She ambled towards him, taking in the sight of the place.

"Ah, Harry, I thought I heard footsteps coming into this room," she said pleasantly.

"Hi, Professor, I didn't see you on Christmas Eve. I thought you had left for the holidays."

"I've been busy with a project, but don't try to misdirect me," said Quirrell, amused. "What are you doing all alone here?"

Harry debated if he should tell her. Was there a chance she would also prohibit him from coming back there? She wouldn't be so cruel, would she?

He pointed to the mirror.

"It's a magical mirror, Professor." He elected to tell the truth. "I come here to see it. It shows me and my family whenever I look into it."

"Really?" she mused.

"Try it, you'll see," he said, rising up. He remembered how Daphne had reacted when she had looked into it, but he didn't think Professor Quirrell would have quite the same response. Someone would have to understand how he felt, right?

He stepped out of the way for the witch. She walked up to it, analyzing her reflection for a moment, then the smile melted off her face.

Almost afraid, he asked:

"What do you see, Professor?"

She looked away and walked off the mirror. She set her eyes on him and said, "I see my husband and our child, Harry."

Harry was filled with excitement at the confirmation of his theory. "I was right! The mirror really shows us our families." But then stopped himself. "Wait... I didn't know you were married."

"Not anymore," was her answer. A small, sorrowful smiled tugged at the corner of her lips.

He felt a weight fall down on his stomach, and something clutched his heart at the sight of the wistful Quirrell.

"I'm sorry," he said, feeling abashed, and sat down in front of the mirror again, trying not to look at the professor. His mother and father returned, beaming at him.

"There's nothing to be sorry for," said Quirrell, resting a hand on his shoulder. He was happy to see her usual smiled had come back. "Although, your interpretation may be slightly wrong."

"What do you mean?"

She ran her fingers on the edge of the mirror, tracing the designs on the wood.

"I've heard of this mirror before," she said, bending her neck to look up. "It's the Mirror of Erised. I wonder what it's doing here."

"Mirror of Erised?"

"I supposed there's no way you could have known about it." She moved over and sat down next to him. "Let me tell an old wizard legend, Harry.

"Before the time of Merlin," she started. "There was a great and powerful wizard; he was so powerful in fact, that he had achieved everything a man could possibly achieve: lands, wealth, glory, respect, love; you name it and he had it. There was one thing, however, that no matter how much he researched, no matter how far he looked, he had never acquired: the way to immortality. He was an old man, Harry, and could already feel the shadow of death stalking the crooks of his castle, waiting for his soul. He devised an instrument that would show him the solution to his problem, a tool to trick magic into telling him its most guarded secret. He called it the Mirror of Erised, and it would show him the deepest and most desperate desire of his heart. For him, he imagined, the meant the way to live forever. When the mirror was finished and he finally gazed into it, he saw his true wish, the one thing he wanted above all else. Now, no one knows what he really saw, but it's said that, from that day, the wizard never once left the front of his creation; he wasted away, and his body eventually succumbed to the death he so feared."

Harry was silent for a moment, thinking about what she had said.

"The Mirror shows us what we desire the most..." he said at last. "Is the legend true?"

Quirrell shrugged. "Who knows," she said. "If that powerful wizard was real, or if the Mirror of Erised was created somewhere else, I don't think that's what really matters. The legend exists for another reason, don't you agree?"

Harry dropped his head, understanding what she meant.

"To warn us of the danger of the Mirror," he mumbled.

"That too," said Quirrell. "There are people, Harry, who will look in the mirror and see themselves attaining immense riches, or overcoming great challenges; I don't believe it holds true danger to them. And there are others, like me and you, who will only stare back at the impossible. At them, it's to whom the peril is truly aimed."

Harry nodded. "I get it, Professor, I won't come back."

She put an arm around Harry and squeezed his left shoulder.

"But I'm happy we share something like dreaming impossible dreams," she smiled kindly at him. Despite everything, Harry found himself smiling back.

They stayed like that for awhile, staring at their respective reflections granted by the Mirror of Erised. Leaning against her body and enjoying the warmth, he took care to engrave the image of his parents into his mind so that he would never forget them.

"This might be a bit sudden, but," Quirrell spoke some time later, clearing her throat. "What would you say if I asked you to be my apprentice?"

Harry's eyebrows shot up, disappearing into his hair.

"I understand if you don't want to," she continued, "it's a big decision, and we don't know each other very well – geez, you don't even know what I'm talking about, do you?"

"Yes!"

"You know?"

"Yes, I accept – I mean, I know too, but I also accept," he said, feeling his chest fill with something he couldn't quite name.

Quirrell blinked, then beamed at him. "Great."

She got up, cleared the dirt from her backside and offered a hand to him. He took it and pulled himself his to feet as well.

"So, hmn, how do we do this?" he asked.

The Professor crossed her arms and seemed to think. "Okay," she spoke. "I need to leave the school for the rest of the holidays. Your formal training will begin together with the term, but -"

She stared pointedly at him.

"I've seen your grades in the other classes, and they're nothing stellar," Quirrell said. "You have a lot of catching up to do. I don't want to overload you just yet, so, for the rest of the break, I want you to start on reading and try to grow into the habit."

"All right, what should I read?" he asked, his excitement managing to win over his general laziness.

"Anything, whatever you can get your hands on."

"Okay."

"Do we understand each other?"

Harry nodded frantically.

Back in the dormitory, laying down on his bed, Harry thought back on everything that had happened over that Christmas: the presents he received, the broom and the cloak, his visit to Hagrid's, the day he spent with Daphne, seeing his parents for the first time, and lastly, Quirrell's proposal. If someone had asked Harry if he had any idea even one of those things would happen on the holidays, his response would only be negative. Still, they did happen, and Harry felt happier than he ever felt before in his life.

Remembering the witch's words, he took out the only gift he had not tried yet, lit a lamp by his bedside, and opened it on the first page.


	9. The First Lesson

**AN: Shot out to haphne24 for beta reading. Thanks for reading, following, adding to your favourites. Drop a review to tell me what you think.**

* * *

 **Chapter Nine: The First Lesson**

"Quirrell asked you to become her apprentice, just like that?" Hermione asked.

"Pretty much," said Harry, munching on an apple and turning a page from his first-year Transfiguration book. Next to him, Hermione looked back with her mouth agape.

"Is that the reason you had your face buried in that book all morning?" asked Ron, with a teasing grin on his face. "Don't wanna let her down, huh?"

"That's great, Harry, congratulations," said Neville.

"Congratulations, Harry – when's the honeymoon?" said Seamus, and the rest of the boys burst out laughing. Harry felt his ears heat up but kept his head down on the book. Perhaps choosing breakfast to tell Ron and Hermione how his Christmas went was a mistake.

"Don't listen to them, Harry," Hermione said, composing herself. She sent the boys a reproachful look. "An apprenticeship is a great honour, especially if offered by one of Hogwarts staff members, everyone knows that – they're all exceptional witches and wizards. Myself, I'll work hard so that, one day, Professor McGonaga-"

"Yeah, yeah, we know," interrupted Ron. Hermione narrowed her eyes at him, while stirred the conversation and asked about everybody else's Christmas.

Hermione took the opportunity to come closer to Harry and talk in a low voice.

"Did you think about what I told you?" she asked.

Harry looked about; Ron was entertaining the others with a story about knocking out his sister with the snowman-gloves.

"Well, I asked the portraits if they've seen Snape acting strange recently," he replied, also whispering.

"And?"

"They said he has always acted strange."

Hermione grunted while Harry chuckled.

"You really wanna solve this, huh?" he teased her.

"I'm just curious," she said, twirling a lock of her hair.

"D'you read many mysteries novels?" he asked, and her cheeks tinged pink.

"My father has a collection back home," she admitted.

"I knew it." He laughed. "Hey, what if I ask Professor Quirrell if she can tell me anything? Maybe we can even steal the Grail before Snape."

Hermione looked shocked. "Harry!" she breathed, but her eyes shone with mischief. "It certainly wouldn't be that easy."

"No, but we could try," he said with a smirk.

She shook her head and snarled. "I'll ask around in the journal, see if they have any clues."

Harry's eyes widened, remembering. "Oh, you got accepted into the Archimedes, right?"

"Someone has to put some sense into those people and write something worthwhile," Hermione said, throwing a look of disgust at the newest edition laying around on the table, between their plates.

The paper had been distributed that morning, and Harry was pleased to see the Shadow Mage had finally sent another article to the school journal. It wasn't as interesting as the first one – this one talked about an exam-cheating circle on the seventh year - but he still marvelled at the Mage's capacity of uncovering things people didn't want others to know. Even Hermione had read with attention, though if she didn't want to look like it. It served to remind him of something else he had mulled over the break.

"Hermione, d'you think there's a way to contact the Shadow Mage?" he asked. "Someone in the journal must know how, right?"

"Is there a reason why you want to do that?" asked Hermione, backing away from him.

"It's just – I thought maybe he could help me find out more about my parents," he said, "I still don't know what happened to them."

Her eyes softened at that. "Oh, Harry – why don't you come sometime with me to our club room, and we can ask around together?"

Harry nodded.

* * *

He left Flitwick's class that afternoon struggling to contain his excitement for his first lesson with Quirrell. His plan was to make a brief stop by the tower to leave his things in the dorm and hurry to the defence classroom, but as soon as he crossed the door, he saw a tall, dirty blonde haired Hufflepuff reclining against the wall. Arms crossed under her chest and supporting her weight on one leg, she looked like she was waiting for someone.

"Bianca?" Harry said. Ron and Hermione halted as well, the freckled boy's eyes widening.

"Harry," she said, straightening herself. She turned to Ron. "Hello, Ronald, may I borrow your friend for a minute?"

"You two know each other?" Ron looked between the two.

"Ron!" Hermione hissed.

"I'll tell you later," said Harry.

"It'll be fast, you should wait here," Bianca told them and moved with Harry several feet down the corridor.

Out of earshot, Harry spoke: "Hey, what's going on?"

"You're still having those dreams?" she asked.

"Yeah," he admitted, running a hand through his hair.

She took something out of her pocket and extended her hand to Harry. "Here, this will help you with them."

Harry took the object. It was some kind of round design made of threads, feathers, and beads. "What's it?"

"It's a dreamcatcher. It's transmuted to stop you from dreaming if you hang it by yourself bedside."

"Transmuted?"

"Made with alchemy."

"Oh," he said, twisting the design on his hand to examine. A dark purple stone hung in the middle, from which within a light seemed to faintly pulse. "Thanks, Bianca."

"You're welcome. It's not a cure though, you still ought to see Madam Pomfrey."

Harry stashed the dreamcatcher away inside his robes. "I'll go to her later."

"As long as you do it. Let's go, your friends are looking weird at me," she walked back with him. "Bye, Harry. Ronald, good to see you."

"Sure, nice to see you too," Ron replied weakly. Bianca nodded at Hermione and left.

His friends snapped their heads at him.

"Where did you meet Bianca Hufflepuff?"

It took the whole way back to explain how he got to know the older girl. While Ron surprisingly didn't have much to say, Hermione was impressed a third-year had been trustworthy enough to be left to take care of all the magical creatures, even if they were her master's charges. That, of course, led to a one-sided conversation about the second year elective, which Harry tuned out for the greater part.

Twenty minutes later, he was in front of the Professor's Quirrell chambers. He tried to straighten out his hair and knocked hard on the door. From inside, came her muffled voice: "Come in, Harry!"

Her office was as steamy as last time, and all the gasses and smoke coming out of the many glass tubes gave the room a hot and humid feeling. Dodging the arranged tables, he sighted Quirrell by the end of the room, hunched over a bunch of papers and scattered pieces of a device of some sort. Her was hair down, but she had relinquished her outer robes. The top buttons of her blouse were undone, and her sleeves were folded up to her elbow, and she looked comfortable in the environment of her office.

She rose with a start and walked around the desk, going for tables with the tubes. "Just a moment - you can take off your mantle if you want." Harry did so, whilst the professor waved her wand over the boiling and cooling substances. It was fascinating to see how the whole system seemed to calm down and stabilize.

Quirrell turned to him.

"I'll add the sulfur later, that way we can enjoy our time better." She smiled. "Give me this."

She took his mantle from him and put it on top of a chair. Walking to the desk, she twisted to face him and sat on top of it, legs swinging. Harry noticed she was barefoot.

"So?" she asked.

"...So what?"

"Did you do what I told you?"

"Oh, yes," he replied. "I finished the one Hermione sent me over Christmas and started on the Transfiguration textbook."

"That's good, Harry – remember: outside of a dog, a book is a man's best friend; or something like that," she laughed. Harry sould swear she was more enthusiastic about this than him. "So keep it up - no more lazing around, do you hear me?"

Harry nodded, a little embarrassed and pleased with her attention.

"Good. Before we begin, let's set some ground-rules. First: I know best; if I tell you to do something, I expect to hear no whining or second-guessing – I can teach you a lot, and not only magic, but not if I have to fight you for it. Second: don't wait for me for everything; if you want to learn something else, I can teach you if I know it, but if don't, go look for it on your own. Do you understand?"

"Yes, ma'am."

"Last: you will refer to me as Master – not Mistress." She smirked. "That wouldn't be appropriate."

Harry was confused but nodded on. "Yes, Master."

"Do you have any questions?"

"Hmm, not related to that, but..." Harry twisted and pointed to tubes. He has been curious since the first time he was in the office. "What are those things?"

She looked over at them. "That is the project I'm working on," she explained. "I may teach Defence Against the Dark Arts, but my expertise field is actually alchemy. In time, it'll be yours too."

"I've heard of it. They don't teach it in Hogwarts, do they?" he asked.

"No, they do not. Alchemy is a more advanced branch of Potionery; it consists of amplifying and, or extending the effects of potions to more than one subject. The Board of Governors probably decided it wasn't needed for a basic course of NEWTS."

Harry thought for a second. "So that means you're better at potions than Snape?"

Quirrell threw her head back and laughed. Harry watched a drop of sweat run down inside her blouse. "Not necessarily, but between you and me…" she brought her face closer to his "... I am."

She was grinning like a Cheshire cat, and Harry grinned with her. How could he not? She was infectious like that.

She reclined back, resting her weight on her arms. Her chest rose and fell with her breathing. "If you get better enough at Potions before the end of the year I'll introduce you to the fundamentals, so study hard."

It was almost too good to be true. Himself being better than Snape at his own subject was something he hadn't even dared dream about before. That stupid sneer of him would be gone for good from his ugly face.

"Alright, we've wasted enough time. Let's get started." She got up and strolled to a door obscured by the tree Harry hadn't noticed before. "Come." Harry followed her into the room, wondering what kind of place she had chosen to instruct him.

Turned out it was a place he had half expected, half not. It was a thin but very long room, and held no furniture of any kind. A twirl of Quirrell's wand, and a yellow line appeared on the floor a couple feet away from the door. She gestured for him to come closer.

"We'll start with my subject: Defence," she said as Harry stood next to her. "Can you guess what we'll learn?"

Harry could not contain his excitement. "Oh, A powerful spell?! How to dodge and never get hit!" Yes, that looked like it, he could already picture himself running the length of that corridor, dodging like mad until he reached some kind of magical sentry.

The professor chortled. "No. You can learn news spells during regular classes, that's what they're for. And dodging… we'll talk about that later. No, Harry, we'll start from the beginning: I will teach you how to cast."

Harry blinked.

"Something all professional duelists know, that many wizards and witches ignore, is that there are proper ways to cast when defending yourself. Some people develop their own, while others learn it together with a duelling style. The one I use, which you will be learning, is this."

The woman straightened her back as if to stand as tall as she could, twisted her body in a way to face ahead in half profile on slightly parted her legs, and raised her wand arm diagonally across her upper front. She slashed downward, and a red spell shot out of her wand. Without a break, she slashed upward and another came out. She did so several times, and Harry was impressed at the speed – it took perhaps two seconds to cast half a dozen spells. It was neither fanciful, nor did it have any resemblance of grace or fluency, but he guessed if matched against other wizards, Quirrell would exceed at sheer efficiency.

She turned to face him. "Now, you try to stand like I did."

Harry tried to imitate her. He twisted his body like she did and raised his arm like she did. She circled him slowly, appraising the effort. She shook her head "No, no," and positioned herself behind him, moulding his body to hers. Harry's heart picked up at the proximity, heat creeping into his neck and face. Form glued to his, she applied pressure to correct his position. "More like this. It's okay to be stiff at the beginning, it'll teach your body to remember," she breathed, someplace above his head. She stepped away, and despite the heat, Harry felt cold at the absence, but that didn't last long, because the next moment her hands were all over his body, adjusting small details of his position.

"This is important, Harry; you must get it right."

She stood aside and inspected him head to toe. "Perfect. Now, for the next part, you will try to hold that stance whilst you practice your aim. Knowing how to cast in a way that's most beneficial to you and being able to hit your target wherever it is, are the basics, but also the most important aspects. We'll keep at it until you have mastered that. The challenge here, Harry, is to divide your attention between the tasks, and still achieve the best results. Are you ready to begin?"

Stiff as a board, he nodded. She swished her wand, and a target mannequin appeared several feet away down the long corridor. Stepping back, she gestured for him to start. He sent a dark pink spell they had learned before the break, and in the first slash, he could tell he had messed up his posture, not to mention not hitting nowhere near the mark. Quirrell said nothing and just fixed his body. Harry tried again. They spent the next three hours or so like that. She would correct him most of the times in the beginning, but later told him to get back in position on his own. It was kind of a boring work, but he soldiered on, not wanting to voice complaints. Around eight o'clock, they returned to her office.

"That was good work," she said while stretching herself, even though it was Harry who had to stay in the same position for the several previous hours. "We made good progress today. Not bad for a first lesson, right?"

Harry mumbled.

"What was that?" when Harry didn't answer she burst into laughter. "Merlin, you're just like me at your age."

She picked two apples from the tree behind her desk, threw one to Harry and took a bite off the other. She sat down on her chair facing Harry and crossed her legs.

"I didn't become an Auror overnight; you will have to be patient too."

That reminded Harry of his promise to Hermione, and deeming it was a good time, he said:

"Master, can I ask you something?"

She raised her eyes back at him. "Go ahead."

"Is someone really trying to steal the Holy Grail, and – did Professor Dumbledore hire you to catch him?"

She smirked and put the apple down.

"My, where did you get that notion?" she said, resting her head on her fist and watching Harry with intense interest.

Harry scratched his neck. "It's just something I've discussed with Ron and Hermione over the break. She thinks this is all a plot to capture a thief."

She curled up the edge of her mouth. "Oh? Who is this thief, if I may ask?"

"Well, she said Snape used to work with this guy called Voldemort during the war and how he used to be a dark wizard and all," he said. "We think it might be him."

His master nodded along as he spoke. Suddenly, she clasped her hands together like she just had the greatest idea. "I know, how about we extend this lesson for some more time?" she said, smiling wickedly. "Stay still."

She came closer and tapped him with her wand. He felt a weird feeling of an egg being cracked on top of his head.

"I have a meeting with the headmaster in about half an hour," she explained with a grin, walking around him. "It's not perfect, but if you stick close to me, you might be able to attend; you'll have your answers there."

Harry looked about himself and was astonished he was now invisible. Much like with his own invisibility cloak, he could see the furniture, floor, and walls behind him. But like she said, it wasn't perfect; a very faint outline of his body could be seen if someone paid attention. He did not hesitate when he spoke next.

"If I have to be invisible, I think I have a better way."

She cocked an eyebrow. "You do? And what is it?"

Harry explained the gift of absolute invisibility he had received over Christmas, which granted him the ability to go unseen to any place he desired.

"The note said it was my father's."

"An invisibility cloak, huh? You're full of surprises. That will certainly work. Alright," she said, looking like she had made her mind. "Meet me here in…twenty minutes."

Harry hurried back to Gryffindor Tower to get ready and grab his cloak. On the way down, he made quick excuses to Ron and Hermione about he had somewhere to go and would return later. When he arrived in front of the Defence classroom, his master was already outside. A grin split her face when she saw Harry.

"Did you bring it?" Harry handed the cloak to her. Her eyes shone as she marvelled at her hands disappearing under the silvery cloth. She slid the mantle over him. "Incredible, I can't see anything."

Harry felt pride at her words. When he had shown the cloak earlier to Ron, he had stated he had never seen such a perfect invisibility cloak; the ones being sold at the Infinity Tower had a slightly blurred look to them, but Harry's was completely see-through. He was happy such an item had belonged to his father.

Professor Quirrell checked her pocket watch. "We should go. Remember, stay close."

They made their way to the headmaster's office and stopped in front of a gargoyle guarding what looked like a spiralling stairway. She gave it a password ("Acid Pops"), and the gargoyle stepped aside for them. The stairway took them up, and from beyond the double-doors of the office came a voice asking them to come in.

With all its buzzing silver instruments, thin-legged tables, and portraits of old headmasters, Dumbledore's office was almost as interesting as his master's, but while Quirrell's had this air of a mad-scientist lab bursting with activity, the old wizard's felt just like it sounded, a peaceful lair of an old and wise magician. And sitting on the other side of the circular chamber was Dumbledore himself.

The man smiled when they came in.

"Welcome, Cecilia," the headmaster said. "Thank you for agreeing to this meeting on such a short notice."

Professor Quirrell walked further into the room, Harry trailing after her, taking care to not make a sound with his steps. "It was no problem, Headmaster," she replied, voice levelled, in the tone she reserved for her classes.

"Please, have a seat. Our guests should arrive at any moment; would you accept a lemon drop in the meantime?"

Quirrell kept on standing, arms crossed behind her back, and expression businesslike. "No, thank you, Albus."

"Are you sure? This batch is particularly sweet," said Dumbledore, and as if to make his case, took one of the drops from the glass jar on his table. A huge red bird, perched close to his desk, cooed in agreement.

If Quirrell would have replied anything, Harry didn't find out, because then the fireplace by the side of the room came alive in bright pink flames, and a figure stepped out of it.

It was a man. Wearing a dark muggle suit, he was tall and broad-shouldered, and his light chocolate hair was sprinkled with occasional strands of grey. He looked around the office, and Harry suppressed a gasp. The fireplace burst pink again, and now a woman walked out of it. With high cheekbones and clear blue eyes, she looked enough like the man to be recognized as his sister anywhere she went. Harry knew both of them. The fireplace roared a third time, now with vivid green flames, and another woman came out. She was much different from the previous two, as in she wore a complete set of witch robes and appeared much older, perhaps a decade or two, and most of her hair had gone grey.

Dumbledore raised from his chair, and he and Quirrell bowed to the new arrivals. "Your Highness," they said together.

The man, who had been staring at everything around him with shining eyes, turned to the old wizard and smiled broadly.

"Ah, Sir Percival!" he exclaimed, walking up to Dumbledore and shaking his hand with vigour. Harry almost giggled when the headmaster's whole body seemed to tremble. "What a pleasure seeing you again after so long! And at Hogwarts no less, I've always wanted to come here."

"I assure you the pleasure is mine, Prince Edward," said Dumbledore.

"This place is great – moving portraits and – is that your famous Phoenix?" said the prince, moving to the bird, which cooed again and nuzzled its plumed head on his hand. The man was delighted; much like Dumbledore, despite his years, he had an overbearing sense of youth about him.

"His name is Fawkes and has been kind enough to keep me company for all these years," said the wizard, eyes twinkling.

"Fabulous. Is the rest of Hogwarts as interesting as your office? My young friend is due to come here next year, and if there are other places such as this, I'm sure she won't be able to complain about boredom again."

Dumbledore giggled. "I suspect she won't find any reason to. My office is one of dullest things about this castle, after all. Perhaps, your highness would like a tour after our meeting is concluded?"

The prince opened his mouth, maybe to agree to the offer, but the muggle woman had walked up to join them and chose that moment to interrupt.

"Brother, you know we're not here to chit-chat. Our time is limited enough without you trying to be nice," she spoke. Harry remembered Princess Monique Pendragon, if only because the woman was an idol of sorts to Aunt Petunia. Both women were slender, tall and seemed to regard everything with a barely concealed look of haughtiness. It was with that exact gaze she addressed Dumbledore next. "Dumbledore," she greeted, extending the back of her hand.

She did not raise her arm high for him, and the old man had to curve deeply to kiss her knuckles.

His smile didn't falter. "Welcome to Hogwarts, princess. The castle is lovelier with your presence tonight."

If Dumbledore expected the woman to feel flattered or show any appreciation for the compliment, he was surely disappointed when her face remained as it was before: carved out of stone. She looked around.

"It's an agreeable place I suppose," she said coldly.

The older woman, the witch, came forward then. "Good evening, Dumbledore. It seems everyone is here; I gather we can start this meeting now."

"Good evening, Amelia. I agree, but if you would permit let me first introduce you to the new addition to our staff: Professor Cecilia Quirrell," Dumbledore said, and all heads turned to them. Harry would have hidden behind his master if he didn't think moving might have given him away. "Cecilia has joined us as the professor for Defence Against the Dark Arts this year and agreed to help me with our little problem."

"Is this the Auror you hired to catch your dark wizard, Dumbledore?" said the princess. "A bit young, don't you think?"

"I have absolute confidence Cecilia can succeed in the task she was given," said Dumbledore without falter. "Now, would you like to have a seat? Lemon drop, perhaps?"

They didn't accept the sweets, but they did sit down on the chairs the headmaster made appear with a swish of his wand. Quirrell once again stayed up – probably to help him stay undiscovered, Harry reckoned.

The muggle princess gave her brother a pointed look. He cleared his throat and said:

"I am sorry for requesting this meeting from you on such inopportune time, Albus, the start of the term must be the time you're busiest, but…" he cleared his throat, "The Crown has been harbouring concerns regarding your… operation here at Hogwarts."

"Last September," continued the princess, "You announced to the whole school, and therefore the magical world, that you had recovered the artefact known as the 'Holy Grail' - something High Chancellor Bones has reported caused quite the uproar among your fellow wizards in the Ministry."

"The calls for you to confirm or deny your claims have not stopped, Albus," said Amelia. "It's been difficult to keep even the Prophet in line."

"Something done on your request if I remember correctly," continued princess Monique in an acid tone. "When the Crown ordered you to hand over the artefact, you pleaded for time, stating it was part of an overly complicated plot to bring a certain dark wizard to justice. It has been four months; do you have anything to show for it?"

Dumbledore listened to everything with a serene expression. Unfazed, he turned to Quirrell.

"I have narrowed it to a number of suspects," she spoke up, addressing the prince and princess. "It's my belief, he shall reveal himself soon."

"So, you have nothing," sneered the muggle woman. She twisted to Dumbledore, contempt on her face. "I expected you to at least have the identity of your criminal by now."

"It is indeed vexing he has managed to avoid our efforts for so long," said the headmaster. "However, not extraordinarily unusual, as this wizard is known to act through others whenever he can."

The princess scoffed. "This has gone on long enough, Dumbledore. It's clear you have nothing but a quickly scrambled stratagem to apprehend this man if even that. It's time you let the law do its own work; I demand you hand over the artefact and let the Ministry deal with the criminal."

The woman and Dumbledore held their gazes in silence for several seconds until Prince Edward put a hand on his sister's arm and said placatingly: "Sister, please, losing your temper won't help anyone here."

He turned to face the wizard.

"Nevertheless, Sir Percival, she is right. I urge you to rethink your decision to keep the Grail in the castle. Think of all the good we could do with it! There are many problems in the kingdom - no, in the world – that could be solved. I promise you the Crown will do everything in its power to aid you in capturing this dark wizard."

"Please consider this, Albus. The king has the best wizards and witches in the country under his service. Your chances could only improve if we employ them in this hunt," Amelia added in.

Dumbledore slowly ran his fingers through the length of his silver beard and for a moment seemed to really weigh his options.

"Alas, I'm afraid I must decline," he said at last. "The wizard in question is far too dangerous to let this chance of capturing him slip through our fingers. He will chase the Holy Grail as long as he feels it is within his power to obtain it. Should we move it to, let's say, tighter hands than mine, or if it is to disappear from this world, it's quite possible we may never have another chance."

The princess gave a sharp sigh and clutched the small leather handbag she carried. "Who is this wizard then?"

"Lord Voldemort."

There was a pause where everyone one stared at Dumbledore in silence.

Amelia sighed.

"You can not really mean this," she spoke softly. "You know better than anyone that man is dead. What he did was unthinkable, but we still recovered his charred remains from Godric's Hollow. What happened to the Po-"

"High Chancellor, if I may," Quirrell interrupted the woman. All heads turned to them again. "The Headmaster and I have discussed this matter, and given the… circumstances which led to Voldemort's death, we are of the opinion that it's possible that he may not be dead at all. The nature of his research is still largely unknown; what he accomplished, unprecedented in our world. However, we also agree he's probably not acting by himself right now – it's likely he lacks the means to do so."

Amelia narrowed her eyes at Dumbledore. "This is not the time to be digging old graves, Albus. Voldemort and Greengrass are dead and that's how they should stay. Besides, aren't you sheltering one of that man's most loyal followers yourself?" She turned to Quirrell. "Well, Professor, what do you have to say about Severus Snape?"

"It is true Professor Snape is being considered as one of the suspects," said the professor. "The evidence doesn't allow me to say much beyond that."

"Excuse me, who is this Snape person?" interjected the prince.

"A former member of Voldemort's circle," explained the Chancellor. "The headmaster testified on his behalf during the trials of the so-called Death Eaters, and he now serves as Potions Master in this academy. It seems the consequences of Albus's actions have arrived to haunt him."

"Well, there you have it, Dumbledore," Princess Monique said as if that settled the matter. "Arrest this man at once and be done with it."

"Unfortunately, it is not so simple. While I don't discard the possibility that Professor Snape has returned to work with Lord Voldemort, we still can not assert with certainty that is the case. Moving with haste would serve little purpose besides advertising our intentions. I'm afraid I have no option left but to once again ask for your patience," said Dumbledore.

The prince spoke up before his sister could do so. "I see we won't be able to persuade you, but won't you, at least, let us assist? Let us lend you one of our men – perhaps Sir Gawain, Chancellor? Someone of his experience would be vital for this investigation."

Amelia shook her head. "Impossible, as the head of the Department of Magical Law Enforcement, he would never accept to work under Dumbledore."

"Someone else then - where's that one missing a leg?"

Dumbledore interjected. "That is indeed very generous, your highness, but it will not be necessary – I repeat, I have absolute confidence in Professor Quirrell's abilities."

The princess started to her feet. "Then, we have nothing more to discuss. Beware though, headmaster, that your deadline will be upheld at all costs, if this scheme of yours fail to give fruit by the end of your school year, you will turn over the artefact one way or another."

"That is entirely my intention," said Dumbledore, fingers intertwined on his lap and a serene look in his eyes.

"Now, High Chancellor, if you'd be so kind."

High Chancellor Amelia and Prince Edward Pendragon rose from their chair and made for the fireplace. Amelia threw some powder into it, and the pink flames came alive again.

Dumbledore went to his feet and bowed to the leaving princess. "Have a good night. Until we meet again, your highness."

Monique walked into the fire and was gone the next second. Her brother threw a last apologetic glance at the old wizard.

"My apologies, Sir Percival, she's been on edge since our father's situation has aggravated, perhaps she thought that..." He shook her head. "Nevermind. One of these days I'll surely take you on that tour. Have a good night, Sir, Professor Quirrell."

They wished him good night and he was gone like his sister. The witch Amelia threw powder again in the fire, changing its colour to emerald green. She looked at Dumbledore.

"I hope you know what you're doing, Albus; you're putting a lot of people on edge here," she said and walked into the fireplace.

Again, it was only the three of them in the room. The old wizard walked slowly back to his phoenix and proceeded to stroke its head. The bird closed its eyes and seemed to lean in on his touch.

"Is there anything you wish to further discuss with me, Headmaster?" asked Professor Quirrell.

"No, you may continue your work," he said, without looking at her.

Quirrell turned to leave, Harry close on her heels.

"Cecilia."

She turned to face him. Harry got the feeling she was tenser than a moment before.

"I heard you have taken young Harry under your wing," he said. Harry's breath caught in his throat at the mention of his name.

"It shall not interfere with my other duties."

"I trust it won't, but –" he turned to look at her then, "–, and if I may be so intruding, why?"

Quirrell quirked the corner of her lips. "Would it be too cliche to say he reminds me of myself?"

Dumbledore just smiled gently at her. "Of course, but, maybe, we all need some kind of chicle in our lives, from time to time. Have a good night."

"Good night, sir."

Harry and Quirrell walked down the moving stairs and made their way back to her office.


	10. Head Boy and Head Girl

**AN: Thanks to my beta, Haphne24**

* * *

 **Chapter Ten: Head Boy and Head Girl**

"So, what did you think?" Quirrell asked him after they had settled on a table inside her bedchambers. Once they had arrived back in the Defense professor's office, she requested a house elf to bring them food and invited Harry to dinner with her.

He put down his fork and knife. What did he think, really? There was so much to think about regarding that night. Dumbledore's actions, the royals, the fact that Hermione was right, and the potential dark wizard lurking around somewhere. It was a lot to take in.

He started with the simplest. "So it is a trap then? Dumbledore wants to catch the thief red-handed, and it's probably Snape…"

Quirrell raised the glass of wine to her lips and took a moment sipping the red liquid. "Do you think it's him?"

"Well, he does look evil, but…"

"But…?" Quirrell arched an eyebrow.

Harry stared at his plate, deep in thought. Snape had it all to fit into the role of villain here; he had been an actual dark wizard before and even had the right motivation to do it if he wanted to help his dark-wizard friends. It was a no-brainer really... so why did it feel so out of place? Like some part of the puzzle was missing.

"I don't know, it just feels obvious. If this Voldemort guy would choose someone to do his job, wouldn't Snape be the first name on the list? I think it'd be better to get someone more unexpected, like, I dunno, Professor Sprout."

Quirrell stifled a laughter, letting some of the wine fall out her mouth. "What?" Harry asked. He could feel his cheeks colouring.

"Sorry," she said, waving her wand to wipe the droplets from the table and cleaning her lips with a napkin. "I just imagined Pomona being all evil-like."

The picture of a dark-robes-billowing, maniacally laughing plumb Professor Sprout sprang in his head.

"Maybe she wants her plants to take over the world," he said, feigning seriousness.

Quirrell gasped and took a hand to her chest. "Why hadn't I thought about that before?"

They laughed together for a few moments.

"But, I mean," Harry said, playing with his food, darker thoughts going through his head. "It feels too obvious to be Snape."

Quirrell rested her elbows on the table and her chin on her hands. "Sometimes, the answer is right in front of us, as most obvious one. Even in our magical world, more often than not reality tends to be as simple as it can.

"And sometimes it isn't," she continued. "Now, that you have seen who's involved in all this, I want to ask you a question: who do you think was in the right there?"

"What do you mean?" Harry asked.

"Between Dumbledore, who wants to keep the Grail until he fulfils his plan, and the prince and princess, who want to use it for themselves, who do you think has the right to it?"

Harry thought for a moment. It seemed to him both were being pretty selfish in their reasons, and if he was to guess who was in the right between them it would be…

"Neither," he replied, staring back at her.

His master snorted. "Don't give me such uninspired answers – I expect more from you. I told you this one wouldn't be so simple. Try again, first tell me why each shouldn't be allowed to keep the Holy Grail."

Harry thought harder this time.

"If Dumbledore stays with it, then it can't be used for anything else for awhile, and he would miss the chance to help other people," he tried, watching his master. When she remained silent, he continued. "If he had given it away, then there's a chance they'll use it for themselves? It would only benefit them."

"Good, so what does that tell you?"

"Well, Professor Dumbledore will still do it in the end, right? The only way to ensure it'll be used right is for him to use it himself," he said. "Why doesn't Dumbledore use it to catch the thief? That would solve the problem."

"Think this through, Harry. The Grail only magnifies a spell, if he was to use it together with the summoning spell, _Accio_ , for example, to summon the thief, maybe he would get all the thieves in the world, but we would still be no closer to knowing that particular one's identity."

Harry nodded, understanding. "What about Voldemort? Isn't he the one you really want? He could summon him."

"Ah, Voldemort," said Quirrell. "You see, there is a bit of problem with that one. Dumbledore thinks he is alive somewhere, but since he was researching immortality before he died, there's no way to know how 'much' alive he still is. He may be walking down this castle; he may be creeping just beyond the barrier of death, whispering orders to his agents. There's too much of a chance we wouldn't achieve anything using the Grail for that purpose."

"I get it – wait, Voldemort is immortal?!" Harry exclaimed, eyes widening.

"He was researching it," the professor corrected. "If he succeeded is unclear, but not very much likely. Still, Lord Voldemort was the greatest alchemist who has ever walked this Earth, everyone acknowledges that."

Harry pondered. "I'd say Professor Dumbledore is right then. Voldemort's evil, right? Everyone says he was a really bad dark wizard. It should be better to put him away for good."

Quirrell hummed, looking at her reflection in the big mirror by the drawer. "That's a convenient way to call him, but I suppose he could be considered evil to the people sitting at Camelot, since he and Greengrass conceived the Rebellion, after all."

"Didn't the Usurper rebel because he thought he was the true heir to the throne?"

Quirrell quirked the edge of her lips. "Well, he believed that too, and it was a good enough reason to appeal to the less instructed and the bloodthirsty, but no wars are fought based on fifteen hundred-year-old succession claims, Harry."

She took another gulp of her wine and continued.

"Greengrass wanted to free the Magical World from the Crown's rule, and Voldemort had spent years advocating the end of the Statute of Secrecy – the worldwide law that hides our existence from the muggles."

"Oh," said Harry. "So they started the war then?"

"Partially. Both had been pushed down again and again, so when the goblins came in offering to fund a martial effort for them, it didn't take much convincing."

"Why did the goblins do that?"

"War is good for business, and of course they wanted back their financial monopoly. WUBS had started sliding its way into the muggle world, and that didn't bode well with the goblins or their muggle puppets. If a new king in Britain were to dissolve the Wizarding Union Bank and bring back goblin gold, their money empire would be guaranteed to survive unthreatened."

Harry grimaced. "That doesn't sound like a very good reason; I mean, not a benevolent reason."

"It doesn't, does it? But what you don't know is that Duke Greengrass' feelings were shared by many in the Wizarding World – the majority, actually. About fifty years ago, when the king abolished the post of Minister of Magic and established the Crown-appointed Magical High Chancellor, a lot of wizards and witches thought he was grasping too tightly onto our world. When Greengrass contested the right to the throne, only people who have deep roots in the Ministry and the Pendragons' power, like Albus Dumbledore, the Bones family, the Gryffindors, the Longbottoms, and the Blacks, were opposed to it."

"So Voldemort wasn't a bad guy?" Harry asked. He felt torn; suddenly, it wasn't looking as simple as a conflict based on selfishness. "What about the dark magic they found after he died?"

"The dark magic found by the king's men, which just happened to jail the more dangerous of the king's enemies?" his master said, with a raised eyebrow. "What about it?"

Harry opened and closed his mouth.

"So the answer to the question is not exactly 'neither', but closer to 'both'. Do you understand? What I'm trying to tell you, Harry," she said, peering into his eyes with her crimson ones. "Is that you have to choose your right, and also be ready to defend it. Through history, those with power have always prevailed. It happened on the war ten years ago, and it happened again in Dumbledore's office tonight. If you want to be right, you must also be powerful. Power decides everything in the end, and only might is right."

000000

The first week back turned out to be quite busy for Harry. Wood, in light of the quickly approaching match with Ravenclaw, strove to push the team to their limits, scheduling practices almost every day of the week. Since the crushing defeat of Hufflepuff to Slytherin, where Daphne prevented the opposite Seeker from capturing the Snitch until her team had a good three hundred points advantage, Gryffindor's miraculous lead in the House Cup became threatened. In turn, Harry hadn't found time to visit the school journal's club room with Hermione.

On the plus side, Bianca's gift worked perfectly. Once he hung the dreamcatcher by the side of his bed, his dreams stopped coming altogether, and he was allowed to have nights of sleep without waking up again and again.

On the first Potions lesson of the semester, Harry stood beside Daphne, expecting them to have regressed to the same way they treated each other at the start of the year.

"Good morning," she greeted, setting things up next to their cauldron.

"G'morning," he replied, going for a tone as neutral as possible.

Snape walked in at that moment, and started the lesson; Harry watched his movements. When he told his friends what he had learned in Dumbledore's office, Hermione was thrilled for having been right and praised Harry for the discovery even if the whole ordeal had been a tad irresponsible on Quirrell's part. Ron was more sombre though; he reckoned the situation may be more serious than they had previously thought, and they might end up in over their heads if they involved themselves further. Regardless, they all agreed to keep an eye on Snape.

As the lesson progressed, and they worked on their potions, Harry noticed Daphne seemed to nag at him less than usual.

"Hey, you okay?" he asked.

"Yeah, why?" she replied. Harry shrugged. Daphne glared at him, then scoffed. "It's nothing. You're actually doing alright today."

Harry swelled a little with pride. Over the week, he had asked Hermione to go over the upcoming potions they would be brewing. He reckoned the sooner he was deemed acceptable in potions, the sooner he could start on alchemy with his master.

"I just tried reading ahead a bit," he said. Daphne raised an eyebrow.

"Does that have anything to do with the Defence professor?"

"Heard about that, did you?"

She made a dismissive gesture like she didn't care. "Word gets around."

Harry failed to see how him becoming Quirrell's apprentice would warrant so much attention that it would get to her, but he guessed Hogwart's gossip chain must be longer than he had thought.

"So, hmm," Daphne said after a while. "I was thinking of something - you don't know much about your parents, do you?"

Harry, who had been chopping the knotgrass for the potion, stopped and looked back at her. "No, I don't...why?"

She fidgeted with her spoon for a moment. "I think I found something of your father-"

Harry turned to her in flash. "Found something? What?!"

"Hey! Calm down!" she said, stealing a glance at Snape. The professor was a couple of rows down the classroom terrorizing Neville and had not heard them. "It's not really important, ye may even know about it already."

"I don't really know anything about him," Harry hushed to say.

"Alright, I'll show you then, but I want ye to help me with something too."

Harry frowned. "Help with what?"

"You know how there's gonna be a week before the end of the term to hold the school contests," she said, pushing a strand of her behind her ear. Harry remembered Lee telling him about it, how Hogwarts organizes numerous tournaments among the years for various subjects during a week right before the end of the term; it was the time of the year their little club was most active. "I wanna enter the first-and-second year potions competition, but I need a partner, and since we're already working together anyway..."

"What about your friend Tracey?" Harry said.

Daphne made an impatient noise. "She doesn't want to. Have you seen hers and Gryffindor's potions? They're abysmal. She hates potions."

"Really? Ron said they were getting along though."

"That's not the point; are ye doing it or not?" she snapped.

Harry didn't have to consider much. It wasn't really a hassle, and he already planned on getting better on the subject anyway. "Sure."

She smiled slightly. "Good, I've already picked the potion - it'll be from the third year textbook. We'll meet on the weekends here in the dungeons..."

Harry stared. Maybe it hadn't been such a good idea to agree so fast.

"… and I'll have the ingredients delivered here, so that's not an issue – hey, are ye listening to me?"

"Yeah, sure. So what did you find?"

"I'll take you there after the lesson."

"Take me where?" Harry asked.

"You'll see." Daphne smirked.

When the time was up, they handed their vials to Snape and got ready to leave to leave the classroom. Daphne had a brief talk with her friend Tracey and came back as he was about to head for the door.

"Let's go," she said.

"Go where?" asked Hermione. She and Ron had fallen into step with them.

"Daphne said she found something about my dad," replied Harry.

"That makes sense. He must have come to Hogwarts, right?" said Ron.

"Professor McGonagall said something about it when she gave me my letter," Harry said and turned to Daphne. "Where are going anyway?"

"The Trophy Room," she replied.

Ron slapped his forehead. "Of course! Mate, if your parents ever won anything at Hogwarts, or were prefects in their house then they must have a picture in the trophy room," he said, then faced Daphne, "That place is huge though, how did you find it there?"

"It was a coincidence; I wasn't looking for anything," the Slytherin said, crossing her arms.

"What were you doing there in the first place?" Hermione inquired.

"I had detention with Tracey," Daphne replied.

Hermione arched an eyebrow. "You had detention on the first week? What did you do?"

Daphne slammed her foot. "What does it matter? I won't stay here to be interrogated. Potter, are you coming or not?"

"Yeah, I am. You guys wanna come?" Harry asked. They shrugged and followed him and the blonde girl.

The room where they stored the trophies was immense; though not as tall as the Great Hall, it was easily longer and wider. Innumerable glass cases were arranged in a way that would resemble a labyrinth were they were not, in fact, transparent.

"The Trophy Room of Hogwarts holds all rewards ever awarded to the students, be it academic or otherwise, for the purpose of proudly displaying their achievements to all the generations to come," said Hermione, obviously reciting _Hogwarts a History_. "Only the House Cup is not kept in this room, for it stays with the Head of House that won the tournament the previous year. The Trophy Room was created by Godric Gryffindor in-"

"Sick," interrupted Ron. "Hey, I heard they even keep the cup from the Triwizard Tournaments here, let's go look for them."

"They're copies though," said Daphne. "The real ones stay with the winners."

"Still," Ron said. "It's worth a look."

"The years are not arranged in order, Ron," said Hermione. "We'll be looking for awhile."

"Why even display them if it'll take forever to find stuff?" asked Harry.

"That's just Gryffindor's way of doing things," said Daphne, with a small smirk.

"As if you slimy snakes are any better," said Ron. "If Salazar had built it, it'd be probably somewhere really creepy or under the lake, so no one would go there anyway."

"You remember where you saw my dad, right?" interjected Harry, as Daphne was opening her mouth to reply to Ron.

"Yeah, it's this way," she said, holding back her retort and walking away.

They walked between the aisles of glass cupboards. Inside them, many pictures and trophies were displayed, and plaques informed when they took place.

"Thirteen twenty-two... seventeen fifty-seven..." Ron read the date plates. "Nineteen sixty-nine… Wait! That's the year mum graduated!"

They stopped before showcase from that year, Ron's swinging up and down from picture to picture, searching for something.

"Look, there she is! And there too!" the boy exclaimed, pointing at two different moving photographs.

From what Harry could remember from the platform back in London, it was indeed the same woman, small and slim, with fluffy and curly hair. The first picture was of the Gryffindor Quidditch team, and they appeared to have just won the cup. A huge smile split her pretty face and she held the cup as high as her small statute permitted, while her teammates celebrated and hugged each other around her. She was alone in the second, but no less happy, wearing a medal for winning the seventh-year duelling championship.

Ron watched the two photos transfixed, his eyes sparkling.

"Your mom won the duelling tournament?" said Hermione, getting close to the glass too. "Is that why you're always on about that thing?"

Ron's ears turned pink. "At least it's better than talking about homework all the time."

"I do n-"

"Potter," Daphne called out to him from a couple feet away. With one look back at his friends, who had started to argue, he walked to her.

"Nineteen seventy-eight," the girl said. She pointed at the photograph by the middle of the shelf. "That's the one. James Potter, right?"

Harry walked closer.

It was a moving picture of two teenagers standing close together, holding hands. The young man was definitely the father he saw in the Mirror of Erised, if marginally younger. With untidy hair, thin-faced, round spectacles, he looked very much like Harry himself. The girl though, he did not know. She had long, slightly wavy light hair, was a bit shorter than his dad, and because that photograph was in colour, he could see the blue of her eyes and tie. She too was pretty, but obviously not the same woman he saw accompanying his father in the mirror. The small plaque next to the frame read: "James Potter & Pandora Ravenclaw – Head boy and Head girl, class of 1978."

"Is that your mum?" Daphne whispered.

"No."

Harry was struck by how little he knew of his parents. He knew of their names, and of their faces now, but what else? His father was a Gryffindor like him, but what about his mother? Was she in Gryffindor too? How was their life at Hogwarts? How was it before they died? How did they die? Who were their friends? And who was this girl who looked to be so close to his dad? He didn't know the answers to any of these questions, but, by Merlin, he would find out.

"Hermione," he called. The girl stopped her bickering with Ron and twisted to face him, looking alarmed by his tone. "Let's go to the Archimedes, right now; let's talk to the Shadow Mage."

00000000

However, that proved to be fruitless. They asked around as much as they could, but neither the upper years hunched over their parchments nor the chief editor knew of any way to contact their star columnist. Apparently, whenever the Mage sent an article, the editor would find it in the morning over his desk. Disappointed, Harry, Ron and Hermione – Daphne had gone back to her common room earlier – left the club nowhere closer to getting any answers.

Later, they sat together for dinner in the Great Hall, Harry slouching over his seat, more gazing dejectedly into his plate than eating his food.

"You've got to brighten up, Harry," Ron was saying, tapping him on the shoulder. "At least you know your old man was head boy now. In Percy's book, he's as important as Dumbledore."

"Yay," replied Harry bitterly.

"Don't tease him, Ron," Hermione chided the boy, then turn to Harry. "It's great your father was head boy, Harry, that's a very prestigious position for a student. If you keep up with your studies like you did this week, I'm sure you can be too, and your dad would be very proud of you."

That warmed Harry somewhat but didn't quite piece through his gloomy mood. He nodded but didn't make any attempt to join the conversation. Ron and Hermione soon finished their own dinners and made to leave the table.

"You going to finish anytime soon?" Ron asked. Harry shook his head. The redhead shared a look with Hermione, both shrugged and left the hall.

Harry stayed around until almost every student had left, simply because he didn't feel like being dragged into any games or chats in the tower. The memory of his parents in the mirror hadn't bothered him so much on the second half of the holidays, but now seeing a solid, almost living proof of their existence, he found he could not take them out of his mind.

He sighed and rose to leave the table. And that was when he noticed the folded up piece of parchment placed under his cup of pumpkin juice. Frowning, he picked it up.

 _First-floor girls' lavatory at seven. First stall from the entrance. Go in and lock yourself. Don't tell anyone; I will know. - SM_

He read it twice, thrice, and, disbelieving the contents of the letter, looked about to see if anyone was fishing for his reaction to a prank. But that didn't seem to be the case though, as the only ones loitering on the table beside him were some seventh-years engrossed in their own conversation. He was virtually alone. Harry read the note again. SM. Did that mean Shadow Mage? In the light of his recent endeavour in seeking the enigmatic figure, Harry could not think of anything else for the initials, and the note itself was clear in its message: he was to meet the sender at the designated place.

For a moment Harry hesitated, thinking of telling his friends and grabbing his cloak just to be safe, but the warning rang loud in his head. He was not to tell anyone. And besides, it must have been pretty close to seven, and he risked being late if he did any detours. Throwing caution to the wind, he hurried up the flight of stairs to the first floor.

It didn't even register that he was entering a bathroom for the opposite sex as he barged in. Most of all, it was a dirty place, covered in dust and looking like it hadn't been used for over a thousand years. It was of simple design too, just a few sinks by the wall, and a row of stalls running along the length of the lavatory. Heart hammering in his chest, he reached for the first booth, lightly pushing it open. It was empty, of course. He looked around one last time and stepped inside, locking it as he went.

Sitting down on the privy, it didn't take much waiting for Harry to start feeling like an idiot. There he was, in the girl's bathroom – the fact had by now dawned on him -, locked inside a toilet, on the orders of a note sent by an unknown person. He might as well stick a parchment saying 'Prank me' on his back. He grunted and got up to leave, when a voice called out from the neighbouring booth.

"Harry Potter."

He froze. It was a deep and distorted voice, neither male nor female, and sounding like it come from some unholy being. Harry gulped and sat down again. Too late to back out now.

"Yeah," Harry said. "I wanna ask you something."

"Then ask."

He was about to, then stopped, suspicion crawling to the front of his mind. "Wait a moment, are you the Shadow Mage? How do I know it's really you? And why would you agree to talk with me in the first place?"

The voice chuckled, sending shivers up Harry's spine. "You're right. I won't help you for nothing; I want something in return. Regarding my identity, how about I reveal your secret? Will that be enough?"

Harry stilled. "What secret?"

"Inside your trunk," the voice said, with sinister amusement, "The third drawer from up-down, there's a box by the end," Harry's eye widened, "Where you keep your collection of Chocolate Frog Cards… featuring only Bellatrix Black."

Harry got red all over. "I-It's because I'm c-collecting and I can trade them later for rarer ones!" he said. "That doesn't prove anything, anyone in the dorm could have gone through my stuff when I wasn't looking."

"Okay," the voice said. "How about that interesting invisibility cloak you have?"

That gave Harry pause. How did he know about that? Supposedly only himself, his master, and Ron and Hermione knew about the cloak, and he had asked his friends not to tell anyone. So unless someone had broken his trust, no one else should know. Well, he guessed there was also the person who gave him the cloak in the first place. At the moment though, the was no way of being sure. He decided to give the voice the benefit of the doubt and believe it belonged to the mysterious Shadow Mage.

"Alright, suppose you're really the Mage," said Harry, levelling his voice. "You know everything, right?"

"Everything?" the Shadow Mage seemed to muse. "I guess you can say that."

"I want to – I want to know about my parents. I want to know what happened to them."

"James and Lily Potter. Yes, I certainly can give you that information."

Harry's heart quickened. "Please."

"Not for free though. There's something you must do for me. Once you complete it, I'll tell what you want to know."

Harry bit his lip. "What? What d'you want me to do?"

"Oh, don't worry, nothing that can get you expelled. I just need you to be my errand boy for a little while."

"Where do I have to go?"

"The Forbidden Forest. There's something I want to be delivered, and the person who is to receive it shall be waiting at the edge, on the other side."

A cold drop of sweat ran down Harry's neck. The Forbidden Forest? Wasn't it supposed to be filled with beasts and dark creatures like werewolves? And the Mage wanted him to cross it.

"I can't; I'd get lost," he tried to argue.

"You'll have a guide; he'll show you the way."

At least he wouldn't be alone, but Harry still wasn't convinced. It seemed unfair that he was only asking for information, and the Mage was demanding something quite possibly lethal of him. He felt his resolve dwindle.

"I'm not sure. I need to think about it," he said at last.

There was a period of silence where Harry thought the Shadow Mage had taken his answer and simply left. He got up and made for the door, when the voice spoke again.

"No, you will decide right here, right now," it said. "This shall be the only time I propose you this; you either accept it and seize the chance to find out about your parents or you leave this bathroom and continue scraping for pieces of whatever you can find on your own."

Harry gripped the knob hard. He couldn't deny the Mage was right. By himself, he took all this time and all he could find out where their faces, and that had been more due to luck than anything else.

He gritted his teeth.

"If I do this – If I go the Forest and deliver your thing – do you give me your word I can learn about them? Do you swear?"

"Solemnly."

Harry took a deep breath. He couldn't believe what he was about to do.

"So, will you?" The Shadow Mage asked one last time.

The image of his parents in the mirror and the picture in the room of the trophies flashed behind his eyes.

"Yeah, I'll do it.."

* * *

 **AN: Thanks for reading. All reviews are appreciated.**

 **I should tell you: from the AU nature of this fic, the characters are somewhat different, because the lives they lived were different. Most of these changes have a reason inside the world - a good example is Molly, who had a more strict and traditional pureblood upbringing -, but it won't always be obvious.**


	11. The King In The Hollow

**AN: Big thanks to my beta Haphne24.**

* * *

 **Chapter eleven: The King In The Hollow**

Harry stared at the ceiling of his four-poster bed, wide awake and unable to sleep. His curtains were drawn, guarding his anxious turns under the sheets from the rest of the dorm. The others were long asleep, he knew, it must have been many hours since the conversation died out and Ron's snores filled the silence of the night. Since then he had tried to relax his brain and just drift off into dreamland, but his mind kept going back to his talk with the Shadow Mage the evening earlier.

"You'll leave the castle as the first light rises tomorrow," he remembered the words, "and walk down to the edge of the forest by Hagrid's Hut. A basked will be waiting for you there, you will pick it up and introduce yourself to your guide; He'll help you get to the other side."

The Mage wanted him to go as soon as morning came, not a day to spare to prepare himself, and since Harry had already agreed to do it, there was nothing he could do. And that led to him staying up all night, thinking about his venture in the morning. He dared not tell Ron or Hermione about any of that, he was not sure how they would react and he didn't want to have to argue with them. He would tell them when he returned, he had decided.

Harry sat up and peeked through the crimson curtains of his bed. Outside the window, the sky had begin to lighten, the stars disappeared and the first rays of sunlight flashed through the clouds. The time had come. Harry got up, feeling the cold stone floor under his feet, and changed into his school robes as quietly as he could. He closed the curtains, as if to appear someone would still be sleeping inside, picked up his Invisibility Cloak, and left the dorm.

He walked down the empty Common Room, donned the cloak, climbed through the portrait hole. The Fat Lady was still sleep and didn't notice her frame being open, or the faint shift of air as Harry walked out. He made his way quickly down the floors and stairways. Save for an almost run-in with the Bloody Baron, the castle was deserted, most of its occupants withdrawn to their own chambers.

Outside was different, already the birds had started to sing in their trees, and the scudding clouds gave away to a baby-blue sky. Harry marched off across the grounds clutching the cloak to himself. He wondered if inside the Forbidden Forest wold be any better. Hagrid's Hut stood lonely next to the looming Forest. Despite Harry's hopes, the Sun didn't seem to penetrate the thick mass of trees, and the shadows looked as dark and threatening as they ever did.

In front of the hut's door laid a huge wood basket, like the Mage said it would; covered with a thick white sheet, Harry couldn't immediately see its contents. Rather than pry inside, he looked around for the promised guide he was supposed to find awaiting for him together with the basket. But no one in sight on all directions and even the hut seemed empty.

Harry sat down on the steps of the door and waited. Perhaps the guide was late? That was a possibility, it was quite early after all. He wondered if perhaps he had followed his instructions too closely, and the Mage hadn't actually meant at the first light of sunrise. He sighed in disappointment.

A couple feet away, the basket quivered.

Seconds went by in which Harry watched the basked with unblinking eyes. Just when he was about to decide it had been a figment of his imagination a stronger gush of wind passed by, and the basket trembled again, as if suffering from a shiver.

Cautiously, Harry walked to the woven bin and pulled the at the sheet covering it. Inside was a mass of bright emerald-colored scales, the lithe body to which they were attached to could be seen many times coiled around itself. Its triangular, enormous – almost as big as Harry's own – head rose to contemplate what disturbed its lair. It had many little pointy horns sprout out if it, giving it a rather intimidating air, but the effect was diminished by the curious piece of fabric covering the place where Harry supposed its eyes would be.

"Who'ss there?" the snake hissed. Harry took off his cloak, but a moment later realized the foolishness of the action, as the snake's blindness was two-fold with its eyes covered.

"Hi, I'm Harry," he said then, as way of introducing himself.

The snake licked the air one, two times and shifted its head towards where Harry stood, crunched over the basket.

"Harry... Harry..." said the snake. "Harry who? Are you the one to take me?"

"Harry Potter," said Harry. "Well, I was told to take something to the other side of the Forest."

"Heavenss! But you're sso ssmall!" the reptile said, licking the air between words. "I'm ssure I can eat you whole it I tried!"

Harry gulped and smile a strained smile. "I'd rather you don't."

"Oh dear, I'm so ssorry," the snaked hissed, sliding its long body out of the basket. Harry had no doubt it could easy carry out the aforementioned task if it so desired. "I didn't mean I would – my sisssterss are always telling to watch what I say, to not hurt other'ss feelings – did I hurt your feelings?"

"Err," Harry scratched his head. "No, it's okay, I'm alright."

"Great!" exclaimed the snake. "My sisssters say I'm too young and sometimess ssay inssenssitive sstuff, -" here Harry had to strain his ears with so much hissing, – "sso, are we going? It'ss cold here."

Harry looked at the basked and back at the snake. He reckoned the serpent really was what he was meant to take.

"I'm supposed to wait for a guide."

"Oh! Oh! It'ss me, I'm the guide!" cried the snake, proudly perking up its body. "I jusst have to follow the big man's ssmell, my sissters told me."

"Really?" Harry whispered to himself. Although the snake was indeed quite big – and intimidating if he was to ignore its child-like mannerisms –, he expected another wizard to go with him. Well, what's done's done, he told himself, remembering the deal with the Mage. He would go with the snake.

"Okay then," he said, putting on the Invisibility Cloak again. At the very least the creatures in the forest wouldn't be able to see him. "If it's just us two, let's go."

Harry started for the forest, the snake sliding on the grass next to him. They stopped by the edge, just before the line of wood, and Harry looked at the snake, while it rapidly licked the air with its forked tongue. "This way," it said. Harry sighted and, after a moment, followed it.

Soon he was inside the forest and under its thick canopy that towered up them up above. It was easy to see that the trees of the Forbidden Forest were not the same as the trees found around the green areas of Hogwarts fields. Here they were large and tall, their roots looking like tubes growing in and out of the earth, transporting the on very blood that kept the forest alive.

"By the way," the snake broke the silence. "My name'ss Marvin, ssorry for not introducing myself earlier. Nice to meet you, Harry."

"That's alright, nice to meet you," said Harry, ducking under a particularly tall root arch. "So, Professor Hagrid was taking care of you?"

"You mean the big man?" Marvin said. "I didn't know that was his name, but I'd guess so. You're actually the third human I've met; the big man – Hagrid wass it? – and the girl were the only ones who came to the Nest. And I didn't know you humanss could talk."

"We sure can," said Harry. "Why wouldn't we?"

"I guessss you're right. Maybe the other two just don't like to talk much?" wondered Marvin. "I wissh I knew what you people look like."

Harry looked again at the dark fabric covering the snake's eyes, curious about the strange addition.

"Why is that you're wearing that over your eyes?" asked Harry. Looking behind them, the sunlit hut was getting farther and farther. Soon he wouldn't be able to see it anymore, he expected.

The hefty snake seemed to hesitate before speaking. "It's becausse I'm a bassilissk."

Harry, who had never heard of a basilisk, was puzzled as to why that should answer his question. He said it so.

"I wass born insside the Nest," started the snake at length. "Everything wass dark since the beginning and it was hard to find thingss, I could only ssmell them. But my sissters would help me, and I wondered why they could do sstuff better than me. They told me I am a bassilissk and can't see. But the other snakess my age told me I jusst have this cloth covering my eyess, and I assked them to take it off for me and..."

There was a pause, and Harry spoke. "And what?"

"They died."

Harry stopped, staring at the reptile. Marvin stopped too, slightly lowering his head and facing away. "A bassilissk's gaze has the power to kill everyone who lookss into it. My sissters told me."

"I'm sorry," said Harry. They resumed their track through the forest. "Is that why you're leaving your home?" he said, thinking the Nest the snake refereed to be the snake pit he had visited so many months before.

"I would guesss sso."

Harry and the basilisk Marvin walked and slid in silence, the snake constantly licking the air for Hagrid's scent and the path they ought to follow. Harry tried to be useful and looked for anything that might pose a danger for them. The forest was surprisingly quite in the early morning, and for a long while Harry didn't see anything more than birds flying about from treetop to treetop. Until suddenly Marvin hissed and pushed the two of them behind a large stump.

"Shss, over there," he whispered, pointing with his triangular head to a ways out of the path they were following.

Harry watched and perked up his ears for the sounds of the forest. There was a definite racket of hooves marching against the ground and dead leaves from the direction Marvin was pointing. Because he was invisible and couldn't really be seen, he raised his head to get a peek on whatever was approaching their way. From amidst the trees came trotting something extraordinary – half man half horse, naked torso and long white-blond hair falling over his back.

"It's a centaur," marveled Harry.

"What'ss a centaur?" Martin whispered back.

"It's a man with the lower half of a horse," he explained.

"What'ss a horsse?"

The centaur stopped a couple feet away from the stump they were hiding and Harry held his breath, afraid he had somehow heard them. Carrying a bow and a quill of arrows, the half-man looked about the clearing slowly, as if he expected to find something there. He wandered in smalls circles, turnings his head this way and that. Harry watched him, still as a statue.

"What do we do?" said Martin, and Harry hurried to put a hand over the basilisk's mouth, but it was too late. The centaur now watched their stump attentively and nocked an arrow on his bow. He walked over to them in a careful gait. Harry took out his wand.

A hurried noise of galloping broke through the forest, and the half-man twisted just in time to see another centaur jump over the bushes. This one was female; silver-bodied and haired, she was smaller and leaner than the male. Likewise, she carried bow and quill, and her torso was also naked, her chest out in the open for cold shill of the forest air.

"Firenze," the female centaur called. "This is not the way we must walk."

"The planets have shown me this path, Sorina," said the male centaur Firenze. "A great opportunity presents itself for us today."

"The planets showed me a great hunt today, Firenze, but not on this side of the forest. Must you waste the revelation?"

"I'll have wasted it if I do not find what I am meant to find," said Firenze in a grave voice.

The centaurs looked between themselves for a long while. The female centaur, with a face set in stone, turned around and trotted back the way she came. Harry wondered if perhaps she was hurt by the male's tone. Firenze looked upset also, pawing at the ground. He looked on, at Harry and Marvin's direction one last time and walked away, following the female.

When he could no longer hear the sound of his hooves, Harry let go of Marvin and raised to his feet.

"I think he's gone," he said. Marvin licked the air once and nodded. "Centaurs actually exist, that's crazy. What's next, werewolves?"

"I hope not. That ssoundss dangerouss."

Later, Harry and the snake Marvin were still walking the forest. They had to be reasonably deep by then, because with all the tree-dodging, bush-crawling, and adjustments in their path, Harry was sure he wouldn't be able to pinpoint the way back to Hogwarts. Luckily, the centaurs were the only beings they encountered, and they remained relatively danger-free so far in their journey.

"So, Marvin," Harry said, mainly to break the silence. "You're not sad at to leave your home?"

The snake didn't reply immediately, but slid through the dead leaves with an air of uncertainty. "I liked the ssmell of it and my ssisters are there," he said. "But I think the other ssnakes didn't really like me. I was the only bassilisk there. Do you have any family, Harry?"

"An aunt, uncle, and cousin," Harry replied.

"Are they wizzards like you?"

And Harry understood what Marvin was trying to say then. They were still snakes, of the same species, but if he had been the only basilisk among all his peers, why, how lonely must he have been.

"Where you are going," Harry said. "Will there be other basilisks?"

"I don't know," he replied wistfully. "I wass told we're not very common."

Harry felt sorry again for the big reptile. Their situation were something alike, but Martin seemed to be even more special and unique – and had a good reason to be feared by others, if Harry were honest. Harry hoped whatever Martin may end up at, he could find something like Harry himself found at Hogwarts.

The snake came to halt next to a great oak tree, Harry stopping with him. Marvin faced the forest before them, forked tongue flickering about from side to side, and moved no further.

"Is something wrong?" Harry inquired, staring into the dark shadows of the trees.

"Thiss place, it… stinkss," he said. "The big man ssmell's goes on, but there'ss another ssmell. Ssomething foul."

Harry could not smell it anymore than he could smell Professor Hagrid in the air, for him that part of the forest had the same scent as all the others since they had entered: earthy, musky, and wild. But he had been deferring to the basilisk's tongue and nose so far, no sense in starting to doubt it now.

"Perhaps we can go around," suggested Harry.

"No," Marvin replied. "It stretchess far left and right. Something livess beyond thiss point, I think."

They stood for a moment, until Harry realized the basilisk was awaiting for his decision. Should we go on? Was the question. Harry spared a glance behind them. Had they been walking for how long already? One hour, two hours? Perhaps three? In any case, they couldn't turn back now, even if the snake did not deem it as safe as before. Besides, he was invisible, and even if whatever was out there could smell him, that must count for something, right?

"Let's keep going," he said at last. "But keep an eye out. Just in case."

And so they pressed on. If the Forbidden Forest thus far had been a silent maze of giant tress and twisted roots, it was now a dead silent maze of trees, roots, and darkness. Nothing seemed to live there, nothing made a sound. No birds, no buzzing of insects, no rustling of bushes in the distance by some animal. It was complete, and deafening silence. The shadows seemed darker too, meaner. It was, perhaps, all inside Harry's mind, projected into his perception of the world now that the possibility of danger had presented itself.

When he started to feel eyes over them, he preferred to believe that.

Harry strode across the dirty path with large steps. They were walking quickly now, eager to get out of the forest, or at least leave that part of it behind. The sound of dead, dry leaves beneath them, and the cracking twigs were loud against the silence, but after awhile another kind of noise had joined them. It was came from far above them, on the high thick branches obscuring the Sun and seemed to follow them, never getting too far or too close. It was a sort multiple small thunks on solid wood, as if many things walked over the trees, jumping over and over to catch up to them.

It was not until they reached a clearing that they came to a stop. Not because of an obstacle on the path, or that it had gotten too dark, but because just by the edge of the clearing, half-hidden by the darkness beyond, was a thing. It was big, almost as big as Harry, and it stood on many long, hairy legs. It walked out of the shadows to stare back at them with its numerous pitch-black eyes, and Harry finally saw, it was a spider.

"Halt!" the spider commanded, it's pincer's clicking sharply. "Not an inch further, monster."

Harry saw that the huge spider was not looking at him – and of course it wasn't, he was invisible, he reminded himself – but at Marvin by Harry's feet. The basilisk did not reply.

"Your kind is not welcomed here," continued the spider, in a threatening grow. "In the name of the king of this forest, I order you to turn back at once."

Harry watched Marvin. The snake was static, facing the six-legged arachnid. He wondered what he would do.

"What iss he ssaying?" Marvin whispered to him.

"You can't understand him?" Harry whispered back, puzzled. Marvin shook his head. Perhaps magical animals can't talk among themselves, Harry reasoned. "He's telling you to go back."

"Only me?"

"Err – he can't actually see me; I'm invisible."

"You're invissible?!"

"Stop with your hissing at once, monster!" bellowed the spider, through the mad clicking of its pincers. "I take you have no intention of leaving, and honestly I was hoping for that. I, Aragog, and my brothers and sisters will see to that the world is freed from such an abomination as yourself!"

The spider straightened, then lowed itself as if preparing for a great leap. All around them Harry noticed the many sets of legs and dark shapes coming out of shadows. Five, perhaps six other spiders were coming to join Aragog in his assault on Martin. It was too many. Maybe he could talk with them? Convince them to let them go, explain why they were there.

The creatures were to descend on them, when Harry pulled his cloak in one swift move, revealing himself. The spiders halted before their advance. There were shouts surprise and "men!" around him.

"Wait!" he called, extending his arms.

"A man?!" exclaimed Aragog, the spider on the ground. "Where did you come from?"

"I was here the whole time – look, I'm a wizard, from the school," he explained nervously. "I'm just taking my friend to the other side of the forest."

Aragog's expression darkened. "You brought this freak into our domain?"

"We're just going through. We'll be gone before you know it."

The spider didn't seem to hear him. "That is a grave crime, son of men. Just killing you won't be enough to atone for such a sin. The king will decide your fate. Seize him!"

This was a mistake, Harry thought and went for his want, but it was too late. Suddenly he was taken, clutched by long and hairy limps, and raised from the ground at a terrifying speed. Bellow, he saw the specters falling down on Marvin, and then there was darkness.

He soon found himself being involved in a thin, milky-white thread, while the spider bellow gyrated him. When the creature was done, his whole torso were covered in its web – Harry couldn't move a muscle in his arms and his wand might as well be leagues away. They had not stopped either, and Harry had no idea how far they had got from the clearing. At last, they came to a stop atop a tree branch and high above the ground. On another tree, another spider greeted them. This one bigger and hairier.

"What is it you're carrying over there, Aragog?"

"A man, sir," said the spider holding Harry, with a shrill voice.

"Bring it here, lad, let me see," said the other one, with the tones of a superior officer. In a moment they joined it on its tree, its bottomless dark eyes peering over Harry. "It's a cub – and almost all bones. Where did you catch it?"

"Down by the entrance, just off the path," the smaller spider explained. Harry noticed a hint of excitement of its voice. It sounded proud it had captured Harry.

"Well done, put it together with the other game for tonight's supper," the bigger one turned to leave. Harry's breath caught in his chest.

"Sir," the one with Harry called. "Captain Aragog told me to take him to the king."

The spider turned back slowly, its many eyes narrowing. "Why?"

The underling spider told the other of how they had found Harry and Marvin back in the clearing. The officer looked as appalled as the first Aragog, and readily ordered that they move out to meet their king as well. It was another journey through the darkness until the canopies gave way to clear blue sky; tied too tightly, he could not look around to see where they had arrived, there was a sudden sense of weightlessness, the treetops flew away from him, a soft jolt bellow, and he knew they were on ground again.

The spider threw Harry forcefully on the floor, holding him down with two of its legs. He scratched his face against the dirt, straining his neck until it hurt, and saw they were in some sort of hollow. All around, spiders came crawling out of their holes and trees, edging to the corner of the circle; soon Harry was surrounded. Just in front of him was an immense dome made of web. An unsettling sense of foreboding grew inside him.

"Stay away, this is knight business," bristled the bigger spider. It walked a few feet to the front of Harry and called in a loud voice, clicking its pincers sharply. "Aragog!"

There was movement inside the web dome, and next the biggest spider Harry had ever set his eyes on emerged from inside. It dwarfed Harry by four times his height, its pincers as long as his arms, and body covered in thick black fur. It moved very slowly and deliberately, and for all its size Harry saw it was also very old, with patches of gray hair mottling his body and eyes the color of milk, have gone blind a long time ago.

"What?" it spoke, voice deep and echoing in the silence of the hollow.

"My lord," said the spider holding him. "We've found this man trespassing into our lands."

"Was it with Hagrid?" the king, Aragog, said. Harry perched his ears at the mention of the professor. Did the monster know him?

"Hagrid was nowhere to be seen, sire," clicked the smaller one behind them and received an angry look for his unwarranted intrusion from his superior.

"Then why have you bothered me? Have it killed," said the king, almost lazily.

"It was not alone. It traveled with – with," the spider stuttered, as if afraid of uttering the word, "with a basilisk."

There were gasps all around, and many spiders recoiled. Impossibly slow, Aragog walked closer, its eyes, who had wandered vaguely staring at nowhere, now seemed sharper and ghastlier than the darkest corner of the forest.

"Where is it?" the monarch said, in the low voice of those who are truly angered.

"To the east, just shy off the main path," replied the officer. Next to his massive king he now seemed small and nowhere near as threatening as he once appeared.

"It was but a hatchling, no more than five feet long. The others stayed behind to slay it," hasted to add the smaller one.

"Fools!" Aragog howled, its pincers clicking fretfully. "They shall be slaughtered! Quickly, take forth fifty of your brood to hunt it down. Do not rest until you have brought me its corpse."

The spider shifted on its legs, perhaps in fear – of the monster back in forest or the giant before him, Harry could not say. At last, he withdraw the legs that held Harry down, and he could move again, for all the good it did him. He could feel the dirt on his face, see the crack in the lenses of his glasses, but his arms remained immobile, utterly trapped inside the iron-like web. When he managed to stir himself up to a crouching position they were gone, back into the darkness of the trees above. Aragog remained.

"Spiders and snakes have been enemies since the dawn of time," the king explained. "Among its kind, this dreaded creature you brought into my forest is the foulest and most dangerous of them all. I ought to gutter you myself for that."

Harry felt the cold sweat drip down his neck as Aragog came closer. "I'm a wizard – from the school," he repeated himself, hoping the monster would have more sense than his subjects.

"I suspected as much. Hagrid can come as he pleases, because I allow it, but that does not mean this privilege extends to his fellows."

Harry gulped. "They'll come looking for me, you know," he announced, gambling in the possibility the spider might fear the grown ups, the actual wizards of Hogwarts. "If I don't return to the castle."

If King Aragog feared anything, it was not wizards though. "And perhaps they will even find your gnawed bones, perhaps they will find their deaths. Or perhaps, they will not come at all – this is called the Forbidden Forest, is it not? My forest."

That send an inexplicable anger climbing up to Harry's throat that chased away his wits and caution. "This isn't your forest," he spat. "It's a forest, it doesn't belong to anyone."

The spider did not flinch. "Oh, but it does," it loomed over Harry, immense and terrible, its ugly features held no kindness, no forgiveness, only the absolute certainty of its words. "Everything belongs to those with the power to seize it. A forest, a kingdom, a mate – it makes no difference – all the riches in the world exist for the powerful, and the law of Might is absolute."

Harry had no words for that, the eyed-shadows around them watched with equal fear and reverence; by the time it said its last, the old tyrant was above him, eclipsing the moon and all light in the world. He stared open-mouthed and unblinking, breath caught in his chest and noticed he was about to die.

"Enough of that, I have no more breath to spare on the dead. As it happens, human flesh does not entice my appetite," said Aragog, and a wave of relief washed over Harry, but it was quick and died with the spider's next words. "Take him to the newborns, let's see how the young wizard likes the feeling of his flesh being eaten from the inside out."

In a sudden jerk Harry was up in the arms of yet another spider. Quickly, he was taken away, so fast he had no time to scream, though his heart threatened to escape through his mouth at any passing second. Complete darkness engulfed him shortly after, as they seemed to descend into one of the many caved holes on the hollow and down towards Merlin only knew what. It was a short trip, thankfully, and soon Harry was lowered to the floor, gently this time. There was a moist felling about his legs and Harry knew he was being bound again with web.

When it was done, after his whole body was covered from feet to mouth, the creature departed, the sounds of its steps echoing against the walls. For a few moments all Harry could feel was the rush of his blood pumping madly through his veins, anxiety about what going to happen clouding his mind. Yet when minutes passed and nothing did, Harry's senses thought it safe to return to his body and allowed him the benefit of clear thought again. His eyes had adjusted to the darkness by now, and the faint sunlight coming from outside let him inspect his whereabouts.

Walls of dirt surrounded him in a circular shape, full of short slashing marks that told him they had been carved by the repetitive effort of the spiders's pincers, and some points were covered in thick web put there to sustain the cave and protect it from collapsing. On the ground and next to him were dozens of these queer lumpy balls, as big as his head and the color of rotten milk. And the place stank; the metallic scent blood dominated the place, so overwhelming and strong it made he want to retch into web that covered his mouth.

He didn't know how long he stayed there, laying in the dark and waiting for something to happen. He tried multiple time to reach for his wand inside his robes, putting all the strength he had in his arms and struggling against the web holding him prisoner. But it was useless, his arms did not move an inch, and each time he was no closer to freedom than before. He yelled his frustration again and again, cursing his stupidity for listening to the Shadow Mage and agreeing to come into the Forbidden Forest, and promised and prayed that were he to get out of that situation he would never again be so foolish. When the balls began to shake, the fear truly settled in.

A few minutes of terror and the sound steps broke thought the silence of the hole. Not exactly steps in the way of human feet against the floor, Harry noticed, but rather something harder – hooves, perhaps? He strained his head to the way of the entrance, and sure as daybreak there it came his way, half-man half-horse, a centaur. It was the one he had seen back in the forest, with the palomino body and fair hair.

He crouched down in front of Harry, squatting on his front legs, took out from the pouch at his belt something the looked like a knife, pointy and milky as if carved from bone.

"I will cut you free from the webs now," the centaur said, as he brought his dagger closer to Harry's face. "Try to make as little noise as possible, there are still a few of them about."

Harry nodded as better as he could, and the centaur began the work of carefully sliding the blade through the countless threads enclosing Harry's body. When he was done, the first thing Harry did, even before getting up, was go for his wand. He would never let go of it again if he could help it.

"Thanks," he muttered, running his hands forcefully on his robes to get rid of what web was left on him.

"You are welcome," replied the centaur. He studied Harry from head to toe. "I've been looking for you."

"For me?" Harry did not understand.

"Yes, but first let us go, this place is not safe. Most of the spiders are outside the hollow, dealing with some disturbance, but some remained," he said and turned to the entrance, walking slowly. Harry followed him.

"What are those things?" he asked, pointing to the head-sized balls. They were shaking even stronger than before.

"Eggs," answered the centaur. "And close to hatching from the looks of it, maybe in an hour or two. You were lucky, each of them holds close to a hundred spiderlings, smaller than eyeballs, and they first like to eat where it's warmest, that is, inside your body. I doubt even your bones would remain."

The thought made Harry more than a little sick. "Thanks," he repeated.

"It's a good thing most of them never reach adulthood, otherwise they would have overrun this forest long ago," the centaur explained. He took out his bow from his back and nocked an arrow as they reached the entrance of the hole.

"But how did you find me?" Harry asked, eying the two corpses a couple feet from them, each with an arrow deeply buried on the spider's pincered head. No need to ask how did he get past them. Still, the place had been crawling with their kind when Harry was brought in; where were the others?

"It was easy enough, one just has to follow the trail of dead acromantula," he answered, turning to Harry. His eyes were clear blue, like sapphires. "I must say, you are an exceptionally talented wizard for taking so many on your own and so young."

But I didn't kill a single one, thought Harry. Marvin? Hours before, when he was carried away, the last he saw of the basilisk the spiders had fallen to attack him. If he survived and was as dangerous as Aragog had implied, it may be that he wrecking more than a little havoc on the spiders. He found himself not caring too much if they met their ends.

Thankfully, not one appeared to bar their way as Harry and the centaur climbed the slope out of the hollow. Harry took a moment to gaze upon the nest. It was smaller than he had thought, even the web dome in the middle, where King Aragog lived. He wondered if the monarch was out to help his subjects in whatever disruption had allowed the centaur to rescue him with such ease. Somehow he doubted that.

"My name is Firenze," the centaur announced as they walked back to the trees. "The planets have warned me of your coming today into our forest."

"The planets?"

"Yes. The planets will tell much and more, to those who are willing to listen," said Firenze. "Will you tell me you name, child?"

"Harry Potter," he replied.

"Listen, Harry Potter," said the centaur, in a voice that sounded grave and ominous. "A great darkness gathers around you and that castle. Even now it worms its way into your hearts, whispering its black secrets, weaving its web of lies."

Harry immediately thought of the meeting back Professor Dumbledore's office. Voldemort had someone close to Hogwarts, was that what they saying then?

"I understand," Harry said. "But what's that have to do with me? I can't really do anything, I'm just a student."

"You can do more than you imagine. In time, you will be given a choice, Harry Potter."

A choice for what exactly Harry didn't have time to ask, because next they emerged to a very small glade among the trees. The female centaur he saw before with Firenze stood there, bow in hand. She had it aimed at them, but lowered once she saw her friend.

"Sorina, I have returned with the human boy. Harry Potter, this is Sorina," announced Firence. The female nodded once at Harry by way of greeting, and Harry nodded back, doing his best not to stare at her naked breasts. Firenze turned to Harry, "We must talk once you're safe outside the forest. There's much I need to tell you."

"We must leave at once," Sorina stressed. Her voiced was pregnant with impatience and distaste. She was not happy at all to be there, Harry noted. Well, neither am I, he thought bitterly. "The spiders have gathered on the other side, but they are likely to return at any moment."

She took something out of one of the bag hanging from her waist, it was long and silvery and looked like liquid mist. It was his Invisibility Cloak.

"Is this yours?" she asked. Harry confirmed and she handed it to him. "Interesting trick, but it won't be much use for you in this place. Put it away quick and let's go."

She turned to whisper something to Firenze while Harry did just that. Once his father's cloak was safely stashed away inside one robe's pockets he raised his head back to the much taller centaurs. That was when he saw it. Black as the shadows of the trees, the eyes just as dark, but the pincers caught the smallest stream of sunlight on its sharp points. Firenze and Sorina had their backs to it and didn't see it. Harry raised his wand as it jumped on them.

The spell was on his lips, halfway through his throat, ready to strike the acromantula midair on its flight, if he was fast enough. He wasn't. A jaden lighting bolt struck down the creature, sending it crashing to the ground in a tangle of black hair, limbs and emerald green. The centaurs jolted to attention, startled by the sudden explosion of movement, and in the blink of an eye readied their bows, pulling back the strings as far as their arms would allow, but they did not fire, enraptured by the sight at their hooves. The spider rolled and struggled, screeching so loud in agony it made Harry want to cover his ears; around its body, clutching tighter and tighter until the unmistakable sound of breaking joined the wails of pain and the spider began to scream even louder, was a mass of scales attached to cylindrical frame. A few more seconds and the sound stopped, the limbs went rigid, curling up on themselves.

The scales moved, loosening its grip on the dead spider. A triangular head emerged from the tangle, mouth open and a clear crystal liquid dripping from the snake's fang. Harry hadn't noticed before how big they were. The back cloth covering his eyes was gone, and said eyes were shut forcefully, as their owner was afraid to open them. Sorina took a sharp breath, and realized what she was about to do Harry run to the snake, blocking it with his body.

"Wait!" he shouted.

"What are you doing, boy?! Get out of the way," she snarled.

"No, he is my friend, we came into the forest together," Harry told the centaur.

Firenze put a hand on Sorina's arm, gently forcing her to lower the bow. She looked at him puzzled. "It's alright, the planets have shown me the boy would not come alone, but in the service of friend."

Harry would not count the Shadow Mage as a friend, but thought best not to commend on at at the moment. He turned to Marvin. "Thanks. Are you alright? I thought you were a goner back there."

"I followed them back to their nessst, but they kept coming at me and it took a long time," said Marvin, uncoiling himself from the dead body. "Lissten, Harry, we have to go, there'sss a bunch of them coming after me and they've even ssstarted to closse their eyess too."

The centaurs were watching them with furred brows, and Harry wondered if perhaps they couldn't uunderstand Marvin. Maybe it was a wizard thing. He relayed the information to them.

Firenze was the first to speak up. "From here the end of the forest is closer than the castle. We will take you there and reenter out of the acromantula's territory."

"Wait, can you hear this?" Sorina said, turning her left ear to another side of the forest. Harry stopped to listen too. At first it was faint sound of a thousand chops against hard, solid wood, but it grew fast and in a moment it sounded like they were just outside of a thunderstorm.

"They're here!" Sorina said, staring at Firenze with wide eyes.

Firenze's face darkened for a moment. Harry was sure he had not expected the spiders to be on them so fast. "Sorina, take Harry Potter with you and get him to safety," he said.

The woman looked at him oddly, as if she had not understand what he had just said. "Wha – Firenze, no, you are not staying behind," she replied, voice made of steel.

"What, no!" Harry exclaimed together.

He did not relent however, "We don't have time to discuss this, take the boy and go," he said, his deep-ocean blue eyes locked into her dark silver ones.

"Firenze, please," she said. There was hint of something there, something painful.

"I will hold them off for awhile, just enough so you can get a good head-start on them, then I will make for our side of the forest," he assured them. He turned to Harry. "Harry Potter, think about what I said, and think carefully. We will meet again in the future, I hope we can converse more then."

Harry nodded. It was alright if he was only going to stall them. For a moment he thought the centaur might actually sacrifice himself for him. What a stupid thought.

Sorina was still frozen on her four legs, staring at the male in disbelief and something akin to shock. The forest thundered before then, growing louder every moment.

"Now, Sorina," Firenze said, firmly, giving them his back and positioning himself to shoot his arrows. That brought the woman out her stupor, she lowered on her legs and beckoned to Harry.

"Quickly," she called, voice not as strong as it had been minutes before.

And Harry did so, clambering on her back like might do an actual horse. Had it been any other any other moment he would have been more reluctant and be gentler and more awkward. Not when an army of angry spiders was coming to kill them though. Marvin jumped in after, wrapping his body around Harry's. Sorina raised and made for the opposite side of the small glade. Harry hugged her waist, to keep him from falling.

No more was said between them as she galloped away, plunging into the trees. She did not look back, neither did Firenze, only Harry, who turned his head when the first bowstring thrummed and the male centaur shot arrow after arrow into the darkness, but then they took a turn and he saw no more of him.

* * *

 **AN: Thanks for reading and please let me know what you think.**


	12. Voldemort

**AN: Sorry for the long wait. A great many thanks to Lindsiria for beta-reading and editing. She made this chapter ten times better.**

* * *

 **Chapter Twelve: Voldemort**

It was dark by the time Harry, Sorina, and Marvin got out of the forest. The lead Firenze had bought for them did not go to waste; the female ran fast, trees and branches passed them like blurs in the dark, and the spiders never caught up to them. He only hoped the male centaur got away.

They found themselves at the shores of an immense lake. Stretching far and wide, its calm waters were a black veil rippling with the smallest whistles of the wind, and the moon closer than it ever looked before. On the other side the trees stood out as a long thin line of darkness underneath the bright starry sky.

A few feet away, a small campfire burned against the night, casting its long shadow on the only occupant in the area. Behind it, a boat floated close to the shore. Harry slid off Sorina's back, Marvin's disentangling from his body. Together, they walked, and slid, to the light.

Even sitting down, the figure's back was enormous, many times taller and wider than Harry. As they approached, the large man (or what he thought was a man) rose. The long coarse black hair and beard identified the face of Professor Hagrid.

"Hagrid," Sorina said, breaking the silence.

"Sorina? What are ye-" Prof. Hagrid said, frowning. His gaze moved on to Harry and then to Marvin, his eyebrows shooting up.

"Professor Hagrid, I was told to bring your basilisk," Harry spoke, taking a step forward.

Hagrid scratched the back of his head for a moment. He mumbled something to himself before clearing his throat and patting Harry on the head. "I see yeh, err, did great, so, hn, thanks," he said, with a smile looking strained.

He turned to the centaur. "Did yeh bring the boy all the way here, Sorina?"

"So _you_ are the one who told this student to come into the Forest alone," Sorina all but shouted, her hands on her waist, eyes glaring. She moved a hand to Harry's shoulder and clutched it. "Did you lose the small bit of sense you had in that head of yours? Firenze and I found this child in your pets' nest. I don't think I need to tell you what would have happened to him if we hadn't, do I?"

Hagrid flushed and refused to meet her eyes. "Look, I didn'–" There was a pause. "-But he's safe, ain' he now? No harm done."

The woman closed her eyes and took one, two, deep breaths. "I'll bring the boy back to your castle," she said, voice barely concealing her anger. "So take your little monster and be off."

Hagrid crouched down, and with a wave of his wand a piece of dark fabric wrapped around Marvin's head, covering his eyes. Fearing the man was about to leave, Harry struggled out of Sorina's grasp and stepped forward.

"Professor Hagrid, my name is Harry Potter – I've wanted to talk to you for a long time," he blurted. "It's about my parents."

The big man raised his head at Harry, squinting his beetle-like eyes at him. He then rose with a start, and Harry took an involuntary step back.

"Merlin's beard, yer James's son!" He exclaimed, inspecting Harry from head to toe. "Ye look exactly like him."

"Professor, I wanted to talk to you since the opening feast," Harry said. Finally, he might learn something about his parents! "You helped me out at the Lake, remember?"

Hagrid rubbed his chin over the coarse black hair of his beard. "Yer the kid who fell into the Black Lake, right? I do remember ye. I was migh' busy that night, sorry, hadta leave right after the feast and all..."

"No, it wasn't me..." Harry began to say but decided it wasn't worth explaining. "It's true? Did you my know parents?"

"Knew!? James was my favorite student! And a friend too!" he said, a huge smile stretching across his face. "And you! An' look at ye, already goingta Hogwarts, eh? I carried ye righ' here in me hand when you was a baby, did' ye know?"

"I didn't..." Harry said. "Which is why I need to ask you, Professor Hagrid. What happened to my parents?"

Hagrid's face shrunk at his words.

"None has told yeh yet then. Figures," Hagrid grumbled, averting his gaze.

"Please, Professor."

Hagrid cursed, shaking his enormous fists. "Darn it, ye deserve to know, doesn' matter wha' they say."

"Yeah, I do!" agreed Harry.

Sorina's big body walked between them with a tense trotting, her brow caught in a scowl. "We are not safe yet, I have to get you to the castle as fast as possible. There's no time to make conversation."

"No!" Harry lashed out, "I need to! That's the only reason I came here for!"

"What you _need_ to do," Sorina spoke through her gritted teeth, "is to get back to that cursed castle and _stay there_."

Harry felt the blood rush to his head. He clenched his wand. "I walked through that bloody forest to get here," he said, narrowing his eyes. "I'm not going back before I get to hear everything!"

Sorina stared down at him. "Listen here, _human_ ," she hissed. "You do not understand what yo-"

"Sorina," Hagrid interject. He flinched when she snapped her head back at him. Clearing his throat, he continued. "Look, he's already here, it'll be justa few minutes. The lad's an orphan, he jus' wants to know abou' his folks."

The centaur-woman shifted her eyes between them for a moment. He held her eyes, refusing to give in. After a moment, she turned back to Hagrid.

"Be quick."

With heavy steps, she walked away.

"Alrigh', come now Harry," Hagrid said, twisting and gesturing for Harry to follow him to the fire. They sat down on the small wooden benches the Professor made appear. "Are yeh thirsty?" he said, offering a cup of water he also created with a flick of his wand. Harry gulped it down, appreciating the cold sensation down his too-dry throat.

By his feet, Marvin curled around himself near the fire, seeming to enjoy the heat. He let out a long yawn, then settled his triangular head down on the ground.

"Okay, hmm, where to start?" Hagrid murmured to himself. He turned to face Harry. "Wha' do ye want to know first?"

Everything, he wanted to shout. He knew next to nothing about his parents; how did they meet? What did they do after graduating Hogwarts? Where could he even begin?

Actually… There was a question that kept popping into his head every time he thought about his parents. Even more so after he saw them inside the Mirror… After Daphne had pointed out that they were, indeed, dead...

"How did my parents die?" he murmured.

Hagrid stared into the fire, his hands wringing his wand. For a long moment there was nothing but silence before he sighed and turned his head back towards Harry.

"They were murdere'," he said at last. "Killed by another wizar'."

Harry closed his eyes. In his heart, he had always known. Something horrible had happened to them; _Someone_ horrible had happened to them. But why? Why didn't anyone want to tell him anything? He needed to know; he needed the details, even if it hurt him.

"Who did it? How did it happen?"

"I don' know everything, it isn' as simple as it sounds," Hagrid cautioned. "The country was at war a' the time, y'know, right? Well, it wasn' just a war, the country was divided. Two differen' kingdoms ruled by differen' people. Can ye imagine tha'? Great Britain split in two? That's how it was back then.

"I hadn't seen yer dad in some time, since he moved back to his own folks house in Godric's Hollow, which was on the _other_ side. Now, Harry, yer dad was a great wizar', kind an' brave, one of the greates' people I've ever known. He was my friend since he went to Hogwarts, so, ye see, I was surprised when he wen' ter work for that Lord Greengrass and tha' terrible fellow Voldemort."

"Wait, what?" Harry gasped. "Dad went the Usurper's side?!"

"Aye, I don' know why he did it, bu' he did," continued Hagrid. "One day he simply cleare' his place back in Camelot an' crossed the border. Wen' to brew potions an' what-not for Voldemort. Then a couple months later we heard he had married yer mum. Look, Harry, no' to say yer mum was a bad person or anything, bu', as a Slytherin, she didn' used to hang out with the bes' crowd in school. You know wha' I'm saying? She was beautiful though, she was. I'm guessing he met her again at work an' they fell in love an' everything. Then some time later you was born – I remember since he wrote to me about it, was mighty happy abou' it he was."

Harry watched the flickering fire as Hagrid spoke, the soft sounds of the forest reaching his ears.

"By then the war was raging something fierce, ya see-" Hagrid said, looking back into the flames, eyes distant, his voice growing faint. "Greengrass's army was advancing onto its way to Camelot, an' a lot wizards an' witches were being conscripted, more every day. Dumbledore an' Crouch were neck down in, well, crap, because the country was collapsing, y'know. Then one nigh' it was over. Greengrass and Voldemort were dead an' we managed a deal with their people, putting the country back together."

Hagrid looked back at Harry. "To answer yer questions, one night Dumbledore asked me ter accompany him on a trip somewhere -didn' say where -but then we arrived a' your granfolks's house... or wha' was left of it," he said. His eyes moist and voice not as strong. "The place was gone, ye see, only a couple walls were left standing, everything charred and some in flames. Even your folks–" He sniffled. "-your folk's bodies, they weren' in the best shape. Only you was alrigh', int the middle of all the chaos, with only tha' scar on yer forehead ter show for it – lucky if I've ever seen it."

"What happened?" Harry pressed, a weight pressing down on him making him unable to breathe. "Who killed them?"

"Voldemort," he told Harry. A cold shiver went up the boy's spine. "Voldemort kille' yer parents. Remember how I sai' they used ter work for him? Dumbledore said he probably went there that nigh' to do yer dad and mum in an' blew up everyone inside, even himself. Not ter say the guy didn' deserve it, Merlin knows how bad he was, but there was nothing lef' of him, so awful it was. We only found his wand among the rubbish."

Harry took a moment to process it all in. Whatever he had thought about his parents, it wasn't like that. And being killed by their boss, the man called Voldemort. That name seemed to follow him around.

"Why? Why did he kill them?"

Hagrid shook his head. "Tha's the thing; no one knows, Harry."

Harry let out a tired breath.

"Dumbledore said he'd take ye sumewhere safe, an' I stayed behind to deal with... the rest," Hagrid finished. "An' that's how it happened. I wish I knew more abou' what yer dad was doing back then, but the truth is, I don'."

"It's okay. Thanks, Professor," said Harry. "There's a couple more things I wanted to ask you first, but... was it Professor Dumbledore that took me to my Aunt and Uncle?"

"Musta have been. He tol' me he's take you to safety," said Hagrid. "Great man Dumbledore, Harry. A great man, and great wizard too, don' let nobody tell yeh he isn'. Kept us all safe when nobody else coul'-"

Harry's pale knuckles grasped his wand, and his jaw clenched so tight it looked it might hurt. Safety. Professor Dumbledore took him to safety. It sounded almost funny.

"- What's wrong?" Hagrid finished.

"Nothing," Harry said, forcing a calming breath out. No, Professor Dumbledore wasn't responsible for his miserable life with the Dursleys. The Dursleys themselves were responsible for that. Still… wasn't there somebody else? Anybody. "Are any of my dad's relatives still alive?"

The man rubbed his chin. "No' that I know of. James's mum and dad died sometime later after he graduated Hogwarts. An' your dad was an only child so..."

Harry nodded. Not like he was expecting anything else.

"Did you know my mother? You said she was a Slytherin?"

"Yeah, same year as yer father, though I dunno if they ever talked while they were in the castle. Reckon James wasn' much of a fan of her friends. She was a good studen' though – that I remember – almost became Head Girl herself."

That ticked something in Harry's head. The photograph in the Trophy room!

"Oh, dad became Head Boy, right?! I saw his picture the other day. He was with this other girl, I thought it was his girlfriend," Harry said, inclining forward in his seat. "I think her name was Pandora. Do you know where I can find her?"

Hagrid's face fell. "Pandora Ravenclaw, she was Head Girl together with yer dad," He spoke in a heavy, far away voice. "Sorry ter tell yeh, she died a couple years ago. 'Ad been awful sick for a long time. Good girl too, Harry, she was. Yeh'd never find someone as kind and smar' as she was. They were perfec' fer each other, Pandora and yer dad, I'll never understand why..."

"...He married mum?" Harry finished.

Hagrid blushed. "Sorry, didn' wanna mean it like that," he said, then cleared his throat and wiped his eyes with the back of his sleeve. "So, anything more yeh want ter know?"

Harry thought on it. "Friends? Did mum and dad have any friends?"

"I don' know about yer mum, but yer dad had four," Hagrid said, smiling again. "Four very close, grea' friends."

"Are they still around?" Harry asked.

Hagrid smile died once more. He closed his eyes and only shook his head.

Harry felt the last of the hope go out in his heart. Did everyone die?

"I'm sorry, Harry."

Harry gulped down a lump. "No, it's okay."

"Alrigh', I should be goin' then," Hagrid said, pushing himself to his feet with the aid of his arms. He crouched down to pick the sleeping basilisk. Compared to his size, even the immense snake looked no bigger than a kid being carried. The giant turned to Harry one last time. "I'm really sorry 'bout yer folks, Harry. No one deserves ter go out like that, much less someone like James Potter; but don' let that get to yeh, 'kay? From what I know about James, he'd much rather his son be having fun and getting in trouble around Hogwarts than sulking abou' because of him... but don' be go getting in trouble either."

Harry managed a half-smile. "I'll try not to. Thanks, Professor Hagrid."

"Jus' call me Hagrid."

"Okay, thanks, Hagrid."

Hagrid nodded and turned to centaur-woman a couple feet away. "Hey, Sorina, it's time fer me to go," he spoke louder. "Yer can take him back now. "

The woman centaur nodded once before walking back to Harry. She laid a hand on his shoulder and pulled. It was time to go.

"Hagrid, can I ask you one more thing?" He spoke up before she could drag him away.

Hagrid threw a glance at Sorina and then back at him.

"O' course."

"Why did you leave Hogwarts this year?" Harry asked.

"Nah, nah, nah," Hagrid blurted out, shaking his head. "Not that one, can't answer that. If I do next you'll be askin' me what I put in thir' floor, and no one's supposed ter know these things but meself. It's better if I go know. See yeh next term, Harry."

Seeming to not notice what he had said, Hagrid waved goodbye to them before getting into the tiny boat. At once it began moving by itself, taking its two occupants away. The unexpected information drew a small smile from Harry as he turned away with the centaur.

* * *

The day had come and gone with him outside the castle. The inhabitants, which had been asleep when he left that morning, had retired for the day once more.

Harry wondered how his friends and dorm-mates had taken to his disappearance for the day. He had not intended to stay away for long – a few hours at most and play it off as 'Castle Exploring'. After all, it was common for a first year to wander around the castle and get lost in the confusing corridors and ever-changing stairs of Hogwarts.

Entering the First-Year quarters, he quietly removed his trusty Invisibility Cloak. All the beds, including his own, had their curtains drawn, and he heard the faint breathing of the other boys. As soon as he sat down on his four-poster bed, Ron's face popped out of his, making him jump on his seat.

"Blimey, I thought you'd never come back! One more hour and I'd be going to McGonagall."

Ron was reclined on his wooden headboard with a book, clad in his lions-and-lilies pajamas. The only lights in the dorms were from the Moon, coming through the closed windows, and the small luminescent tip of his wand.

"Oh, hi, Ron," said Harry. He gave his back to the boy, throwing the cloak on his bed, allowing himself a moment to think. "So, she doesn't know already?"

"Nah," replied Ron. "I heard you leaving this morning, told everyone you were feeling bad and had gone to see Madam Pomfrey. Hermione wanted to go see you, but I said she gave you some potion for the bowels and it wasn't the best idea to be in the same room with you."

"Thanks, I guess," said Harry, grimacing. He turned back to Ron. "But... why?"

The boy shrugged. "I don't know, you look like the kinda guy who does whatever you want on your own. I figured you'd be okay."

Harry stopped to glance at his friend for a moment. Was that how Ron saw him?

"Thanks, Ron."

"It's okay," the redhead said, spreading his body on his bed, facing the canopy above. "So, are you going to tell me where you went?"

Harry sat on his own bed. That had been his intention from the beginning, hadn't it? Yet, what he had learned seemed somehow... intimate. The way his parents died, even if he knew all the details, sounded like a dark secret best forgotten in the past.

No. Ron was his friend, who had proven himself covering for him. He shook the strange notion off and told Ron everything.

"Wow, that's crazy," Ron marveled after he finished. "You must be crazy to go into the Forbidden Forest alone."

"At least I found something about my parents," replied Harry. "And the Shadow Mage still owes me a favor."

"You think he's gonna make good on it? I mean, he could never talk to you again, right?"

That was true. The elusive wizard could never contact him again, couldn't he? It was a good thing Harry had already learnt what he wanted from Hagrid then.

"I don't think he's the kind of person to do that, but if he did, I'd have to find out who he is and give him a piece of my mind," Harry shot him a grin.

Ron laughed. "That might be fun," he said, laying down again after having risen to listen to Harry's tale. After a moment of silence, he said, "I'm sorry about your parents, mate."

"Thanks, but it's okay," Harry replied, copying his friends and resting on his own bed. "I mean, it could be way worse, right? I mean, there are worse ways to go, right?"

"Definitely," said Ron. "And if Voldemort... well... did them in, it must mean they weren't one of his Dark Wizards, not really."

Harry smiled. Ron's logic was flawless. If Voldemort was a dark wizard, and Harry was sure he had been one, it made sense that his parents would disagree with him once they found out.

"Of course!" Harry exclaimed, wincing when a grunt came Neville's bed. He continued in a lower voice. "You're a genius, Ron! That's why he killed them! They tried to run away from him, and if he was as dark as people say there's no way he'd let them."

"That must have been it," replied Ron, puffing out his chest and smiling to himself. "Everyone says those Death Eaters of his were more of a cult than anything. They probably didn't want to be part of it."

It was like an invisible weight had been lifted off Harry's chest. He breathed easier, and his throat loosened.

"Crazy coincidence though," Ron wondered aloud, staring at the ceiling of his bed. Harry's head snapped back at him. "Voldemort died killing your parents, and the year you come to Hogwarts, Snape might be trying to bring him back to life."

"Do you think so?" Harry said, eyes widening.

"I mean, it's possible, isn't it?"

"But Dumbledore thinks he isn't dead," Harry said before he could stop himself.

Ron looked at him. "Really? How do you know that?"

Harry winced. He wasn't supposed to tell anyone he watched that meeting.

"Er, Quirrell let it slip one time."

"Oh yeah, I had kinda forgotten you were her apprentice now," Ron paused. "He isn't dead?"

"I don't want to talk about it here," Harry said, eying the other beds. The steady breath of his dorm-mates told him they were still asleep, but it was better to be on the cautious side.

"Okay, but you gotta tell me about it later."

Harry rested his head on the pillow, and weariness settled down on him like a heavy blanket. Yet before falling asleep he couldn't quite stop his mind from ruminating on what Ron had told him. Voldemort coming back as he joined the wizarding world again. Could coincidences like that exist? With these thoughts swirling about his brain, he drifted off.

The next day, Hermione wasn't as understanding.

"Are you completely insane?!" she all but yelled, halting on the middle of the corridor and fixing a glare at Harry. They were on their way to the library, Hermione had decided she needed to study for an Astronomy competition between Gryffindor and Ravenclaw. Apparently, the best place to learn about the stars was not the sky as one might have guessed. Harry had a business of his own in the place, and Ron was following out of sheer boredom. "That - is the most irresponsible thing I've ever heard in my life! Going into the Forbidden Forest, and alone at that!"

"Tell the whole school, won't you?" said Ron, as students turned to look at them.

"What were you even thinking?!" she went on, "Just because someone you haven't even seen the face of told you to, you go to the most dangerous place around? You could have died! Or worse."

"Hermione, really, it wasn't so bad," Harry said. "I'm fine; nothing happened. I crossed the forest and then some centaurs helped me. That's all."

She narrowed her eyes and gave him a once-over from head to toe as if to confirm he wasn't missing anything. She crossed her arms.

"Was that all?"

It wasn't. Harry had left the parts about the basilisk and the spiders out. No need for them to worry about it when it was all in the past.

"That's it, Hermione," Harry said.

"And you talked to Professor Hagrid on the other side?" the girl asked.

Harry nodded.

"What… did you talk about?" she asked, in a calmer and slower voice.

"Hey, maybe we should go inside?" said Ron, pointing to the library at the end of the hallway.

They agreed and made their way down the corridor, Hermione walking ahead in firm steps. Behind her, Harry and Ron shared a look.

"Worse?" the redhead mouthed.

Harry shrugged.

The library was not a part of Hogwarts Harry could boast of visiting often. He disliked almost everything about the place. It existed in a sort of perpetual gloomy dusk - the sun somehow never hitting the high, small windows right. The smell of mold and the dusty air clamped his throat, always urging him into a cough and leaving behind their bad taste in his mouth. Hundreds of bookshelves aligned side by side holding tens of thousands of books, but the narrow rows between them always gave him a feeling of tightness and made him breathe heavier.

They sat down on one of the round tables under the watchful gaze of Madam Pince - who Harry also disliked -, making as little noise as they could. The willowy, vulture of a woman kept staring as Hermione went to retrieve her books. Harry and Ron did not dare open their mouths. Only with the bushy-haired girl back with them, and their faces partially hidden by books, did they spoke again.

Harry continued his tale to Hermione, her eyes softening as he went.

"Oh, Harry," she said when he was done, "that's horrible. I'm so sorry."

"It's alright, Hermione," he assured her, "really, it is. What I need to know is why. _Why_ did he-"

"I get it, Harry," Hermione interrupted him. "Honestly, if I were in your shoes, I'd want to know too."

"So… do you think we can find anything here?" Harry asked.

Hermione tapped her chin. "There are a lot of books talking about him, but they all say the same things."

"Can we take a look?" said Harry.

"Sure," said Hermione, putting her book down and raising to her feet.

"Oi, what about your Astronomy?" said Ron.

"Oh, I was gonna review it," she replied. "I'll do that later."

She came back carrying a sizeable pile of books and settled them down on the table.

 _Rise and Fall of The Dark Arts_ was the first they went through. The book introduced Voldemort first as the dark wizard responsible for the most decisive - and bloodiest - battles fought during the civil war of the seventies, and second as something of a mad wizard, conducting dark rituals in his workshop, under the orders of Duke Greengrass.

 _Notable Magical Names of Our Time_ noted him as a Dark Lord and one of the masterminds behind the revolt.

 _Important Modern Magical Discoveries_ attributed to him many innovations and inventions in various magical fields and even noted his school had been on the brink of a revolutionary magical discovery before his death.

The oldest record of the wizard was from an edition of a 1951's magazine called _Alchemy Tomorrow_. On its cover an ominous sight greeted the readers: a human skull with jaws hanging open and a serpent growing from inside like a terrible tongue. Inside, however, it looked no more than a simple outlet for alchemy enthusiasts, holding numerous with many wizards and witches of many titles.

The front referenced the most recent winner of the _Flamel's Prize_ , an honor given to new alchemists who achieved breakthroughs or developed great pioneering projects in the area. He went by the pseudonym of Lord Voldemort - the skull and snake his signature -, and the magazine explained in detail the working of his process of linking alchemy stones to magical boundary fields.

A brief interview inside the article caught Harry's attention, though it wasn't with the elusive Voldemort, but one Albus Dumbledore.

 _We spoke to our very esteemed Albus Dumbledore (who discovered the Twelve Uses of Dragon Blood) asking, now that alchemy stones can be set to obey the laws of boundary fields, what he thinks this could mean for their future._

 _AT: Hi, Professor. No doubt you've kept up with a good deal of news in the world of alchemy in these past few years. Young Voldemort's project has just been chosen for most recent Flamel's Prize. What do you think? Are we about the witness a revolution in the use cases of boundary fields?_

 _AD: Hello, Mr. Gowsglow, it's always a pleasure to speak with people who work hard to bring the innovation to the forefront of our minds. Regarding Mr. Voldemort's design, I can say that it could mean a change on how we apply these wards in the many aspects of our lives. The medical field, for example, could benefit greatly from applying the selective trait of boundary fields to alchemy stone's effects. As I review Mr. Voldemort's work, there's something in it that, if you allow, worries me._

 _AT: What do you mean?_

 _AD: The design behind boundary fields has remained untampered for close to a thousand years and, backed by the famous Funske Equation, has provided the wizards who set them a zero percent prediction chance of failing to execute their effects. While Mr. Voldemort's model does not directly influence the calculations by itself, it does not ensure that in the future a stone linked to the ward could not come with the reaction of impacting them. And on the same hand, I'm afraid, we're told it's possible to tie a stone to the boundary fields, the information about stopping it from happening is vague at best._

The interview went on with Dumbledore voicing his concerns about the security problems this new design would bring, but nothing else Harry was interested in.

"Did you find anything?" asked Ron, as he turned the pages of Contemporary Works Of Magic.

"Other than he was a bloody genius?" Harry replied, closing the magazine and putting it aside. "Nothing."

"Language, Harry," Hermione said, but with little strength. "They all seem to agree about the same things, don't they?"

"Yeah, that he was smart," Ron said, "and evil."

Harry had hoped they might find anything about that school of alchemy Voldemort ran back in his day. He was certain it held the clues as to why the dark alchemist turned his wand on Lily and James. Yet, none of the papers seemed interested in talking about it.

Exhaling in annoyance, he reclined back on the chair, taking his eyes away from the sea of words and paragraphs for a moment. That was when he saw it. There, by the back of the room, was a section of bookshelves separated from the others by a rope.

"Hey, Hermione," He called, "what's that?"

Hermione twisted to look. "That's the Restricted Section," she explained. "They keep the more advanced and rarer books there."

"Rarer?" He said.

The girl raised an eyebrow. "Don't even get your hopes up, Harry," she said. "You need permission from a teacher to go inside."

"He could ask Quirrell," Ron pointed out.

"Maybe, Ron, but the Restricted Section also keeps lots of dangerous books," she said. "Harry may be her apprentice, but I doubt there's a professor irresponsible enough to give out permission easily."

Harry agreed with Hermione; it was very unlikely he would receive a note from his master allowing him to roam any restricted places, considering what happened in Halloween. Luckily, he didn't need to.

* * *

He returned at night, long after curfew, wearing his Invisibility Cloak. Using his wand as a light, he held it up to see the eerie darkness of the Restricted Section.

His friend was right again. Many of the books referenced the Dark Arts, or subjects that would never be taught at Hogwarts. Others had faded, almost unintelligible covers, or so old that mold had taken over. Some were in other languages altogether.

He wandered the library, for what seemed to be hours, before he found what he was looking for. Squeezed between an unreadable purple book and _Nightmares: The Creatures of the Dark_ was a thin and black booklet. The title: _Alchemy of Voldemort's Secrets._ With his heart beating faster, he used his fingers to pry the book from the shelves.

To his surprise, it was not a book, but a special edition of the _Daily Prophet_ ; printed in hardcover, it dated from 1982. The front picture showed a huge mansion with the tag OVER 17 displayed in golden letters at the bottom. That gave Harry pause. 'Graphical content inside, not suited for underage viewers' read below. Curious, but wary, he opened the book.

A summary told him the edition covered the raid conducted on Voldemort's abandoned state after the war by the Auror Department. The first few pages were dedicated to the operation itself and the Aurors who took part, and the reporters accompanying them, before it moved to the inside of the house.

The school was huge, with over a hundred rooms spread among its five floors. The first and second levels held the bigger ones; arranged like auditoriums, they mostly contained blackboards facing rows of tables and chairs. There the magazine theorized Voldemort lectured his followers and held his meetings.

Rooms of different purposes filled the third level. Some were dedicated to the practice of Alchemy and the brewing of potions. Others were studies, filled with queer objects Harry found alike to the ones found in Dumbledore's office. One had only a giant map of Britain, with its lands, rivers, and mountains depicted in astonishing likeness. The last, and biggest, was an enormous dueling range with its corridors full of obstacles and practice targets occupied half the floor.

The fourth floor was composed of the lodgings. Spartan rooms, with two, sometimes three bunk beds, a wardrobe, and a writing desk; vain, their previous occupants could not be called. Harry was disappointed when the Aurors failed to break into Voldemort's personal quarters. With them stating they would return with the aid of Curse Breakers.

The fifth floor was a library though not nearly as big as the one he lived at the moment. The place was filled with books and parchments neatly organized in corridors by theme and by author. He was sure Hermione would love it as much as she loved Hogwarts' own. Set in the back, a revolving staircase took them to an ample observatory where they could study the star and planets.

The mansion investigated, the Aurors moved to the undergrounds.

Harry had to clamp a hand over his mouth to help push down the bile. In the dungeon-like basement, numerous bodies were arranged like naked dolls on display. Each body was missing a part. Most were missing eyes, ears or other small parts while a few had large gaping holes where their major organs should have been. One had been cut open from head to crotch with gruesome gashes.

Fumbling, Harry turned to the next page, desperate to get that image behind him.

But it did not get better. Picture after picture showed rooms blood-stained or covered from floor-to-ceiling in strange scriptures.

Occasionally, the cell would contain a long-dead prisoner hanging by their wrists or bound to the cobblestone floor. The author always identified them as one of the many Wizards or Witches that went missing during the war. By the time Harry reached the last pages, he was ready to leave the booklet behind and never open it again.

It was the last page that steadied his hand. It was a photograph of a group of people dressed in black robes staring seriously at the camera. Under the picture it read:

 _Last published picture of Voldemort Institute Of Alchemy And Advanced Sorcery attendees, 1978. The Death Eaters; at least half were confirmed to bear the Dark Mark. From bottom-left to upper-right: Antonin Dolohov (imprisoned), Evan Rosier (deceased), Walden Macnair, Triatus Wilkes (deceased), Corban Yaxley, Lawrence Nott, Augustus Rookwood (imprisoned), Rabastan Lestrange (imprisoned), Lily Potter (deceased)-_

Harry stopped. For a moment he could only stare at her name, casually written next to others. Slowly he raised his eyes to scan picture again, heart beating like a drum in his chest. He found her on the second row, flaming red-hair framing her beautiful face. He had her eyes. Her almond-shaped green eyes looked right at him. It was without a doubt the same woman he saw in the Mirror of Erised. He traced her small head with a finger; she looked up at him and opened a thin smile. He smiled back, his throat feeling tight. At that moment he wished nothing more than to take the book, despite its terrible contents, if only to have a picture of her with him. But he didn't.n the end he closed the book and returned it to the shelve.

Another failure. No clues were in the home Voldemort left behind, and only the memories of their terrible deeds remained with Harry as he returned to his bed, echoing behind his eyes.

* * *

The days went by, the snow gave way to an insistent rain that ceased most outdoor activities and confined most students inside the castle. Caught between studying for classes, sessions with Quirrell, and Quidditch practices, Harry felt too tired to muster the energy to chase down the Shadow Mage and demand payment. Voldemort, however, was never too far away from his thoughts. The question of why he had killed his parents, his own followers, proved to be as pertinent as the question of how they died.

Gryffindor won the match against Ravenclaw, by Harry catching the snitch in the first half-hour of the game. This put their house once again close to Slytherin for the House Cup. They had only to win the last game against Hufflepuff and victory was theirs. The praise from his housemates was as intoxicating as it had been after the first game, the after-party just as good. The betting students hadn't made the same mistake again and bet heavily on Harry this time.

Saturdays with Daphne turned out to be more interesting than he expected. He had to admit the girl was a rare hand at potions, and even her bad temperament looked funnier than anything – as she had the habit of getting even angrier at him when he would laugh in the middle of one of her rants.

One particular Saturday had Harry and Daphne working on their potion in an empty classroom somewhere on the first floor. This would be the second time they completed the potion, and it was looking like it would come out better than the first.

Daphne stirred the cauldron alone while Harry watched the rain fall outside. There was nothing left for him to do.

"... about four more times I think. We should be fine if we make it perfect by then," she was saying; Harry hadn't quite paid attention to the beginning. He turned back to stare at her, oddly bored. She had her sleeves back to her elbows and hair done in a bun like she always did before working on a potion. Harry wondered how she always made her hair look so... pretty, no matter in what way she arranged it. "A third-year potion should have a solid chance, don't you think? I don't think anyone will try a fourth-year potion."

"Your accent is almost gone," he said, knowing it had nothing to do with she had been saying.

She stopped stirring for a second or two, a faint pink coming to her cheeks, then resumed. "Really? I hadn't noticed," she replied without looking up at him.

"I liked it," Harry said, feeling rather selfish at the moment. She said nothing back.

He exhaled sharply and turned to watch the rain again. Something was bothering him, he knew. It had been almost two months since his adventure in the Forbidden Forest. Two months since he learned of his parents, and two months since he last heard of the Shadow Mage. His thirst for information had only grown stronger, but without the Mage, he was stuck in a castle with people who knew nothing or had no desire to tell him anything.

Harry clenched his fists.

The sound of raindrops against the glass and the dull gray of the scenery outside only made him angrier. Without thinking, he blurted out:

"Hey Daphne, do you know anything at all about Voldemort? He was your dad's friend."

He regretted it the moment it left his mouth. Hadn't he promised himself he wouldn't speak of those things with her? Instead, he let it out at the first moment his impatience got the best of him.

This time when he turned back to her, she was watching him.

"Why do you want to know?" she said, voice cold as the rain outside.

Harry sighed and ran a hand through his hair. "Sorry, just... forget what I said. It has nothing to do with you."

Silence hung between them as Daphne gave the last touches to the potion and checked its integrity. "Did he kill your parents too?" she spoke again after a moment.

He licked his lips, eyes flickering to the side then back again. "Yeah."

Daphne continued checking the liquid inside the cauldron. It was supposed to be of a deep red color and as thin as water, but what the blonde held in the spoon was dark pink and would not go down the throat easy. She sat down to write the results.

"My mother didn't tell me anything," she said. "No one told me anything." Harry nodded even though she couldn't see it, hunched over the paper. "But," she went on. "That doesn't mean I didn't look on my own."

His head snapped up.

Harry knew from talking with other students that the Slytherin common room was in the dungeons, but no one had ever told him exactly where. Harry now understand why. After being led by Daphne through the dark maze-like corridors of Hogwarts's undergrounds and told to wait outside the hidden stone door, Harry was sure he'd have a hard time bringing someone back there.

Harry wondered what he would say if any Slytherin arrived to enter or came out of the place. It certainly wouldn't be a very pleasant conversation. Or friendly. Luckily for him, Daphne did not take to long and soon enough the stone door slid open again, allowing the blonde out.

She was carrying what it looked like a newspaper, albeit with its pages yellowed and thin. Carefully, she handed it to him. The paper felt old and delicate on Harry's hands, and the header dated it to 1964; almost thirty years to the date.

"It's an old _Prophet_ ," she explained, moving to stand next to him, as they inspected the contents. "The charms probably died out a long time ago."

"How did you find it?"

"I wrote the Chief Editor asking for a couple editions from around..." she said. "Anyway, he sent me only a few, said they keep little. You wanted to know about Voldemort, right? This one talks about him."

Harry was impressed someone his own age could straight up write to the Chief Editor of a newspaper that everyone in the castle read every morning.

The first page showed a still picture of a wizard with light, short hair and full coarse beard. He was dressed in a business-like robe and held the hand of a hooded figure with a mask of a skull covering his face. Below the photo Harry read:

 _Duke Tiberius Greengrass (32), on the right, and the genius alchemists Voldemort._

Harry threw a side glance at Daphne, who was focused on the page. Right under, an article gave context to the picture:

 _A PARTNERSHIP FOR (OUR) FUTURE_

 _In the most recent session of the International Confederation of Wizards, Duke Greengrass brought an unexpected guest to the hearing. The stranger in an extravagant skull mask is the world famous English alchemist Voldemort. The revelation was quite the surprise for those present as Voldemort has been a known recluse for the past ten years. Last time he was seen in public was winning the Flamel's Prize in 1951 when his works gathered the attention of the Wizarding community. Together with the members of the ICW, and the press, the alchemist stood in waiting as Greengrass gave his speech:_

" _The world is changing. The society of today is not the same it was two hundred years ago. The recent muggle war against proved that more clearly than anything else. But, the question I bring you all today is: are we, the wizards, changing with it?_

 _The territorial conflict started in the 1930s by the muggles spiraled out of control into a worldwide storm of destruction, engulfing all the major powers in the globe. The Second World War, as the muggles call it. And what was the so-called German National Socialist Party's answer in the face of the overwhelming odds against them? Gellert Grindelwald. That was their answer. And what was our answer - Britain's answer?_

 _Well, gentlemen, isn't the best solution to fight fire with fire? We, the magical folk, once more were forced to end the war they had begun. Once again we were their bailout, their last resort. And once again wizards and witches paid with their life's blood in a conflict, we had nothing to do with. As I did so many times before, I ask you: why? Are we tools to called upon when the going gets too tough? Servants to whims of our masters? Are we not humans just like them?_

 _Makes one wonder, who is the Statue of Wizarding Secrecy really protecting, when we are ready to die for a world that doesn't even know about us? If that is what the world requires of us, I say the time of hiding is over. Let the muggles know of everything, let them know of what they're dealing with, whose blood is being spilled along with theirs. Either that or leave us alone!_

 _This sentiment is not only mine, but shared with the many unquiet voices in our world. One of them I brought here today to meet you in person for the first time. Mr. Voldemort believes in a solution for both our people, a solution that could bring us closer than ever. I'm happy to tell you from now on we will work on that solution, a way to allow both muggles and wizards to coexist, but not in this master-servant role we're trapped in, but as fellow human beings. As equals. [..]"_

 _Duke's Greengrass's speech can be read in full on pag. 7_

Harry moved the pages, and read the rest of the speech and the few questions Voldemort answered, but it reinforced what had been said: Greengrass and Voldemort would work together in the foreseeable future.

Harry closed the newspaper and gave it back to Daphne.

"Do you have more?"

She shook her head. "Nothing with Voldemort, no."

"So... they only wanted wizards and witches to get along with muggles?" Harry asked. At first glance, it looked almost... noble.

Daphne crossed one arm over her chest. "That's what it says, isn't it?" she said, looking away.

Harry remembered his Master's words about how money had a great deal of weight when the war began, but she didn't go quite into depth regarding Greengrass and Voldemort's motivations.

"Is it true?" he asked the girl.

"How should I know?"

* * *

"Quick, Harry!" Quirrell shouted at him over the sound of deafening thunder and heavy rain above them. "It won't last much longer! "

"I'm trying, master!" Harry shouted back. He moved his wand inches to the right, struggling to maintain his concentration.

"It's up, Harry! Up!"

He did as she said, raising his arm above his head.

The room exploded in a massive blinding light, forcing Harry's eyes shut despite protection goggles. When he opened them, his master stood behind the firm wooden desk. Around her, the apparatus of glass tubes and containers shimmered with the gases and liquids within. All seemed in order, except the one vessel she had her arms buried elbows-deep in.

Before, it had glowed with a strong blue light that shook the professor's whole body. She had been struggling to control it in her hands. It was empty now, and Harry could see her dragon-hide glove-covered arms clearly. She appeared to be holding something.

Cecilia Quirrell retracted her hands from the glass container and pushed her protective goggles to her forehead. The other hand she brought up close to her eyes, to inspect the object she held between two of her fingers. It was a small, blue-colored stone, no bigger than the point of a finger, with a faint light pulsing inside. Her face split into a smile.

"Ha!"

Harry smiled and lowered his wand. The four round mirrors he had been holding up with the Levitation Charm came down to rest on the floor. He shoved his wand into a pocket and walked closer to inspect the alchemical stone.

"Did it work?" he asked.

"Perfectly," Quirrell said between guffaws. She extended the stone to Harry. "Take a look - careful now."

Like the one in his dream catcher, this stone was cold and dead. By touch alone he had no reason to believe the small rock was magical.

"I've got to say, you performed exceedingly well, my young apprentice," she said, rubbing two fingers together over her upper lip as if twirling a mustache. Harry laughed; her evil mastermind impersonation was one of her running jokes he liked the most.

The alchemical ritual they performed - Quirrell had explained to him when she sent a note summoning him to her chambers - needed to occur that night, during the strong storm of the year. She had cleaned up, taking out the excess of tables and tubes and cauldrons, leaving only a circular set of stands that circled the witch. Runes covered the ground in a spiraling pattern that glowed in the dim light of the office. When the rain rattled the windows and lighting illuminated the room for many seconds, they began.

Harry's task in the procedure was simple enough. Levitate four mirrors until the rays coming from a device called The Stolen-Sunlight Cube - a box looking oddly like a pet's crate, that Quirrell told him she used during vampire hunts - reflected into each of them and hit the glass vial his master had her arms buried in. Simple, but that required a lot of concentration to aim the ray light right.

"What is it for?" he said, returning the stone to the professor.

She walked out of the arena of timber, glass, and iron; the table's legs tiptoeing out of her as she went.

She came up to her black-wood desk, where a cube-shaped gizmo stood waiting. Vein-like strings were carved on each of its six charcoal-black sides, and a hole lived in the middle of each face, from where the never sprung from. The woman bent over the table, to fix the alchemical stone in of the cavities, and the cube came to life, its carving filling and pulsing with a weak blue light.

"Wouldn't you _like_ to know?" she spoke with a teasing voice.

"Will you use it to catch the thief?" he said, joining her by the desk.

Quirrell straightened up and made to walk past him. Resting a hand on his shoulder she said, "Still thinking about that, aren't we? I didn't take you to the meeting that time for you to hang up matters that don't concern you. That was not what that was about. Just forget it, okay?"

"I know bu-"

"No 'buts', Harry," she said, sitting down on her high-back chair. "Don't make me rethink the wisdom of that decision."

His shoulders fell at that, but he did not argue back. Lighting a lamp atop the desk, Quirrell unrolled a parchment from inside one drawer and, after tipping the quill on ink, begun to write.

"Would you clean the room, Harry, please? It's only dye on the floor - ' _Evanesco_ ' should do fine," she said, without looking at him.

"Okay."

For a while, rainfall and paper scratches were all Harry could hear inside the chamber, as he worked on putting the place in order. He stuck the mirrors to the wall; levitated the Stolen-sunlight Box to its shelve; stacked the dirty cauldrons up for cleaning later; and shoved the tables back to their original position.

" _Evanesco_ ," he repeated, walking along the cobblestones of the floor, pointing his wand to the painted runes. During this more mindless task, Harry found himself lost in thought.

Why wouldn't she tell him more? Time and time again he had asked, and she had said no. It wasn't like he didn't already know enough, wasn't already involved. Hell, if Voldemort was caught Harry would want to be the first to chat with him. Punch him once or twice. The fact she would not share made him frustrated and feeling a weird something he had not felt since he left the Dursleys' house.

And thinking about Voldemort led his mind back to the what he read in the Restricted Section weeks before. Though he had not returned since, the pictures remained vivid in his head. The bodies, the terrible cells, the missing people, the blood, the weird runes… on… the…

Harry blinked and returned his attention to the marks he was erasing from the ground. The resemblance was uncanny. No, they were not kind the same. The design was different; these were drawn in a spiral, while the ones from his head resembled the roots of a tree, cracking the walls as they went. But the patterns, the symbols used to form them were the same. But, he thought, it was an alchemy thing, right? Like potions, same ingredients used in different ways.

Are you sure? A darker part of his brain made itself known. Didn't Voldemort invent a bunch of stuff? Who can say he didn't make his own alphabet or something?

That can't, he argued back against himself, why would he do that? There's no need to, it must be something common. She learnt somewhere else.

Harry looked back at his master. Stiff, back glued to the chair, neck tilted forward, she wrote on the parchment in - as he remembered - perfect penmanship; a veil of ebony hair covering one side of her face, full lips pressed tightly against each other, and delicate eyebrows slightly furrowed. She was the picture of elegant, beautiful concentration. She was young, Harry noted, but not _too_ young. Could it be?

Should have finished the book, Harry.

"Are you done, Harry?" she said, without raising her eyes at him.

"Yes," he said, mouth dry.

"Good," said Quirrell. "You may go now."

His heart thundered in his chest. He stood there for a moment, shifting his weight on the balls of his feet, gathering his courage.

"Professor," he said. "Can I ask you a question?"

"Ask away," she said.

"Who taught you alchemy?"

She looked at him then. Vermillion orbs stared into bright emeralds for infinite heartbeats. Finally, when it appeared she would not answer, she did:

"Albus Dumbledore."

"Oh," he breathed. Of course.

At once, he felt stupid for his thoughts. Cecilia Quirrell had the trust of the Headmaster of Hogwarts, one of the greatest wizards alive. He had hired her himself to defend the Holy Grail from Voldemort's forces. How could he even entertain that she...

"I see, thanks, master," he said. "I think I'll go now. Goodnight." Then pocket his wand and turned to leave.

"Harry," he heard her call. He turned around.

She was still watching him. She put the quill down and rose. The clicks of her heels resounded through the office as she closed the distance between them. She stopped in front of him, eyes peering down behind her long eyelashes. She went to one knee, and before he could say anything, her arms had enveloped him in a tight hug. The smell of the sweet alchemical fumes mixed with wildflowers assault his nose, and the warmth of her body was quick to drive away the cold of the room.

"Thank you for helping me tonight," she whispered by his ear. "I'm thrilled you became my apprentice."

Though he had not much experience in hugs, Harry felt himself relax in her arms, and his heart swelled at her words. He brought his own arms up to return the gesture.

"Are you happy too?" she whispered again.

He nodded into her shoulder.

"Say it."

"I'm happy you're my master," he replied, his face heating with the confession.

She laughed, musical and gentle, and he couldn't stop himself from laughing with her. So when the warm drops hit his neck, he was confused. _Was she crying?_ Yet when they disentangled, it was not tears he saw.

"Professor..." he said. "Your nose..."

She scowled, seeming to notice her wet lips. She brought a hand up to feel the liquid, and her eyes widened when she saw the red blood-stained fingers.

Outside, the storm went on.


	13. Magical Sleuths

**AN: A great many thanks to** **Lindsiria for beta reading and editing, she is seriously awesome. And t** **hanks to everyone who keep reading this story. Enjoy the chapter and please leave a review with your thoughts.**

* * *

 **Ch 13: Magical Sleuths**

 _The rattle of iron on iron had been accompanying Harry for as long as he remembered. Every step his horse took brought a new series of clanks from the junctions of his armour and knocked his chainmail against the underside of his breastplate. Even his visor trembled._

 _The lance in his right hand stayed firm. It pointed ahead, past his horse's head, to the muddy road he traveled. Even though its weight strained his arm, he wouldn't relinquish the position. Harry knew the importance of having his weapon ready. In an ambush, the time to free the weapon from the saddle could mean the difference between life or death. Old English roads were full of those._

 _The weather was warm that time of the year, and the light rain falling from the dark clouds above did little to chill the surrounding temperature. Its only purpose seemed to soak the dark mane of his horse and slow down his advance._

 _He raised his eyes from the puddles. On the horizon, pitch-black smoke rose onto the sky. Below, flames flickered, high above the burning city, and even from the distance Harry saw the black dots flying over the inferno. His destiny waited._

 _It was dark when he arrived. His horse struggled under him, trying to make Harry turn away. He pulled hard on its reins, forcing it to face ahead. Harry kicked the animal on the junctions of its legs, and it trotted forward in obedience. He made his way into the desolated city, past the glowing remains of houses and the charred debris littering the cobbled streets._

 _The heat was unbearable; sweat trickling down the insides of his already too-warm armour. The smell of sulphur hung heavy in the air, only surpassed by scorched flesh. Despite its state, it was a silent place. His horse's hoofs thundered, echoing through the passageways of the town, accompanied by the wood-consuming fire crackling all around him._

 _Along the way, they landed around him. Perching themselves above blackened buildings, they seemed at the same time demoniacal parrots and curious cats. Their yellow, reptilian eyes followed him through the boulevards that took him closer to the heart of the town. Harry could smell his horse's fear and knew they did too._

 _At the centre of the town existed a church, by far the tallest, largest, and most imposing construction. He was sure, in times past, its beauty was a sight talked about far and wide. Now, it fit well in nightmares._

 _Its bell towers, reaching high into the sky, were charcoal-black fingers that twisted and turned in eternal pain. Broken gargoyles peered over at the devastation with cruel and uncaring eyes. A thick layer of ash covered the huge, round stained-glass windows covering up the pictures of the Holy Virgin and the Messiah. The heavy oaken double-doors lay busted, forgotten on the floor._

 _His nemesis rested atop it. Like a snake, it coiled around the stone, intertwining with the building, adding to its grotesque design. His dark as night scales shone against the dull grey, reflecting the blazing houses around them. His claws were spears, each bigger than Harry himself. Maw parted in a gruesome smile, revealing teeth as sharp and swords. His eyes, gleaming with intelligence and cruelty, were the colour of emeralds._

 _Harry clenched the holy spear, raising it to a level with his chest. The dragon rose on his limbs, causing a waterfall of rocks and debris tumbling to the ground. There were no words between them, for none were needed. They knew each other too well. Harry kicked the horse forward, and his nemesis descended on him like death given wings._

 _They met in a hurricane of iron, steel, claws and fire. Fury moved his arms, hate filled his lungs. They pierced, gnawed, hacked, and bled the world red. One moment he was a dragon himself, battling the beast as equal in the darkened clouds of smoke and ashes. And below them, everything began and ended in fire._

* * *

Harry woke with his breath caught in his chest and a pounding in his head. The blurry bedroom was too bright, too airy, and the sheets too cold on his body. He took a moment to realise the reason was his own sweat; the bed was soaked. His roommates' mattresses were empty and made.

The mirror in the bathroom showed him what he didn't want to acknowledge: the pale, white skin, the outline of the ribs, and the dark circles under his eyes. It was apparent his health had not been the best in the past weeks, yet Harry had no explanation for it. None aside from the dreadful dreams plaguing his every sleep.

He did not dislike all of them. Most were whimsical by nature, showing him worlds and scenarios more unreasonable and illogical than the world he knew. Like memories, they played a record of a life he might have lived as someone else. There was the raven-haired girl playing with her mother, and the olive-skinned woman and her baby. He liked those like that. But they were the rarities among the more consistent ones of the dragon hunter and the doctor with his autopsies. Those, he hated.

The grandfather clock in the Common Room told him the first lesson of the day was about to begin, and the empty corridors of the castle confirmed most students were already inside. At the classroom, he saw its great double-doors were closed and locked.

He took a breath and knocked. Seconds later, the creak of hinges filled the silence of the morning as the doors parted, to reveal the displeased face of Professor Snape.

"Late again, Potter," he said.

"I'm sorry, sir."

"Are you?" said Snape. "It seems you cannot be bothered with such ordinary notions as punctuality."

"That's not it, sir."

"It isn't? What is it then?"

"I… overslept."

"You overslept," Snape repeated slowly. "Seeing as your sleep is so much more valuable than your classmates', and mine, perhaps I ought to send to you back to sleep more?"

"No, sir, this will be the last time," he said.

Snape peered at him from above his hooked nose. "See that it is. As her favourite, Quirrell might have shown you excessive leniency, but I assure you, Potter, I'm not Quirrell and I don't have the patience, or the willingness, to deal with your impertinence. Twenty points from Gryffindor."

Harry followed him into a very different Defence Against Dark Arts classroom. The windows had been closed, and the light coming from the torches gave the room a cave-like eeriness. The tables and chairs, so far absent during the year, had returned, lined up next to each other, where

Gryffindors and Ravenclaws were already seated. He found a place next to Ron and Hermione by the middle of the classroom.

"Hey, Harry, you alright?" whispered Ron. "You look terrible."

"When did Snape arrive?" he asked.

"About three minutes ago, I think?"

Harry groaned and grabbed his textbook.

"Was it vampires or ghouls today?" he said, flipping through the pages.

"We finished those last week. We began the chapter about identifying jinxes and curses on Monday, don't you remember?" Ron said. "Are you sure you're okay, mate?"

"Shhh," Hermione hissed. "Snape is about to start."

Harry sat through Snape's Defence Against the Dark Arts wishing he was anywhere else. Different from Quirrell's lessons, Snape's were nothing but reading textbooks, answering questions, and writing essays. It involved little to no wand-work. Harry, who had been top of the class before, had to struggle again to keep up with students like Hermione, who learned by memorising entire chapters. It was a step down from the practice-heavy lessons of his master, and Harry wished for nothing more than her return.

Five weeks had gone by since the night they attempted the alchemical ritual. To Harry's surprise, and almost every other student not from Slytherin, Snape had taken over her class the next day, and ever since she had not been seen inside the castle. She stopped summoning Harry to her office, halting his private tutoring, and although Harry tried going back many times, it appeared there was no one inside. With Snape refusing to inform them- him- about what might be going on with the class's real teacher, Harry was in the dark.

"I wasn't expecting Snape to stay with Defence for so long," Hermione said as they walked towards the Great Hall. "You know, it's great we're getting more homework, but I must rewrite my whole study schedule at this rate."

"It's great?"

"Sorry, Harry, Professor Quirrell is a great teacher, but you'll have to agree she gave few assignments. I continue to say books are the best way of learning."

"I liked her- " Ron shot a glance at Harry, "- I mean, I like her. Gets us actually doing things."

"Yes, Ron, but learning is not only practising," Hermione told him. "You must have a strong theoretical basis as well, other else you'd be doing things without ever understanding them."

"Hermione," said Harry. "If you're trying to imply Snape is a better teacher than Quirrell..."

Hermione looked disconcerted as they crossed the doors of the hall and sat with the other Gryffindors. At the High Table, Quirrell's spot was vacant next to Snape's, and further down Professor Dumbledore seemed to be having a pleasant conversation with Professor Sprout. Harry wondered if the headmaster was even worried about his employee.

"I'm not saying that at all," she replied. "But sometimes too much of a good thing can be bad."

Harry grunted and filled his plate. Better to not follow that path of conversation if he didn't want to get upset with his friend.

"And speaking of too-much," Ron spoke up, turning to Harry. "Is something wrong with you, Harry? That was the third time you arrived late to Snape's class."

"By what three minutes!" Harry said.

"Yeah, but that's _Snape_ ," said Ron. "He wouldn't let anyone go."

"No, but Snape has it in for me since I arrived. He hates me," said Harry, shoving a spoonful of food into his mouth.

"I'm just saying," Ron said and shrugged, "if you're not careful he'll end up suspending you."

Harry didn't want to hear any more of it and turned to his plate. Across the table, he saw Hermione watching him with a weighting stare.

"You _do_ look terrible, Harry," she said at last. "Have you been sleeping well lately?"

Harry fought the urge to scoff. He was sleeping _too_ well.

"I am, you don't need to worry about me."

"Are you still having those dreams?" she asked after a moment.

His head snapped up. "How do you know about that?"

"You told us, remember?" Ron said. "Back in January."

After Bianca gave him the dreamcatcher, he recalled then. Though they bothered him at the time, he didn't have them so often. He had mentioned them in passing to his friends, explaining the reason for the gift. He didn't think Hermione would remember.

"I guess so," Harry said, turning to face the girl. "They began again a couple weeks ago again. The dreamcatcher must be broken or something."

"Have you gone to Madam Pomfrey yet?"

Harry winced and said, "Not yet."

Hermione nodded. "That's good."

"It is?"

Hermione glanced about- the closest student was about five places from them- and leaned over the table.

"I think there's something wrong with Hogwarts," she said. The boys shared a glance. "Harry, after you told me you were having those dreams, it suddenly occurred to me that I haven't dreamed at all since I got here."

"Really?" Harry said.

"Wait, you haven't?" said Ron. "I had plenty."

Hermione faced him. "Tell me one dream you had this week or this month."

"Well, there's was this one about..." Ron began. He furrowed his brow.

"What about this semester? After you arrived?"

Ron stared at her, open-mouthed. Seconds passed, and he closed it. Hermione turned to Harry again.

"I asked around for a while after that," she went on. "And it's the same with everyone, no one is dreaming at all. No one. They only realize it when I ask them."

"That can't be normal," Harry said. "Right?"

Ron shook his head. "Never heard anything about that."

"It isn't normal," Hermione said. "The older students said they could dream fine before in the past."

"But they can't this year. And they don't even remember they can't," Harry said, creasing his brow. "Is there a spell to make you forget something?"

"Yes, Harry, but in this case, it's more like they don't even notice," Hermione said.

"Like the Muggle-Repelling Charm?" Ron said.

"What's that?" asked Harry.

"It's a spell you put around something magical the Muggles can't learn about. Dad says the Ministry uses it all the time in competitions and fairs; if the muggles get too close, they remember something they have to do somewhere else."

"But it's different," Hermione said. "First, it wasn't put in a place, but rather on the knowledge that we can't dream, Ron. Plus, we notice it if someone tells us. Sounds a lot more complex if you ask me."

"Someone powerful must have put it in place," wondered Harry.

"Yeah," Ron agreed. "But who?"

"Dumbledore? It _has_ to be related to the Grail," Harry said.

"I think so," Hermione said. "It must have _some_ use to Professor Dumbledore."

Ron raised an eyebrow. "What if it wasn't him? Might've been the thief."

"No, Ron, because..." Hermione flustered. "There was one time we had a dream, remember?"

Ron furrowed, but after a second it came undone and his eyebrows shot up his forehead.

"The third-floor corridor!"

A few fourth-years who had been passing behind him turned their heads at them, and Hermione scowled at Ron.

"Stop shouting."

"Sorry," said Ron. "Man, whatever's in the corridor must have caused it."

"Yes," said Hermione, but with less enthusiasm. "But I didn't find anything in the Library."

"Did you try the Restricted Section?" Harry said.

"Of course not."

"I can lend you my Invisibility Cloak."

Hermione seemed to think for a moment. "Yes, that could work," she said, nodding along to herself. "As long as Madam Pince doesn't see me - Oh, I can spend as much time as I want there..."

"Probably not a good idea, Hermione," Harry said.

"Anyway, Harry, wasn't Quirrell the one who helped you when you passed out there?" Ron said. "Bet you she knows what's up. You sure she didn't let anything slip?"

Harry shook his head. "I wish I could talk to her..."

Ron put a comforting hand on his shoulder.

"Too bad, mate," he said. "And I wager whatever's in there is forcing you to dream too..."

Something clicked inside Harry's head. The memory of Christmas when he visited Hagrid's hut in the middle of the night. What had the girl said then? Compulsive dreaming wasn't good? She told him to go see Madam Pomfrey or Snape. And still, she gave him the dreamcatcher afterwards.

 _"...next you'll be askin' me what I put in the thir' floor, and no one's supposed ter know these things but meself..."_

But someone knew. _She_ knew.

"There's someone else," Harry said. "Someone else knows what's on the third floor."

"Who?" asked Hermione.

"Bianca Hufflepuff," he said. "Hagrid told me he put something there, remember? It's probably a creature or a monster. Has to be. She is his apprentice, she gave me dream catcher- If Hagrid didn't tell her, she must have figured it out, or she saw it when he brought it."

"Harry, of course!" said Hermione. "That makes so much sense! If someone knows, it's her!"

"I can talk to her, maybe she'd tell me," Harry said, his voice picking up. "No harm in trying, right?"

"And I'll search the Library with your cloak!" Hermione said. "Go after classes are over and stay beyond curfew. I can't look at everything, but I'm sure I can cover a lot."

Harry turned to the other boy. "Ron, what do you think?"

"It can work, Harry, but..." he said, "if we find out what the Challenge is, are we really gonna try to try to steal the Grail? Are you folk forgetting it's supposed to be a trap?"

There were a few seconds of silence, and Harry deflated like a puppy denied a bone. For a moment there, he had forgotten the whole Holy Grail set up was a ploy to catch the dark wizard Voldemort and let himself get carried away in the anticipation of stealing artefact for himself.

Hermione, judging by the colour on her cheeks, must have been thinking something along the same lines.

"We're not going after it, Ron," she spoke slowly. "But… we need to know what it is! And Harry- why is Harry the only one being affected like that?"

"We don't know if he's the only one."

"Do you see anyone else in this hall looking like they're about to drop dead?"

"Hey!" Harry exclaimed.

"Well… no."

"And that's why, Ron," Hermione said, puffing up, "we can't let Harry stay like this."

Ron faced Harry, seeming to analyse him.

"You're right about that one," he said.

Harry wanted to protest but felt letting it slide might be a better option.

"Okay, so, Hermione's going to the Library, and Harry will talk to Bianca," Ron said. "What do I do?"

They pondered on it, bit the leads they had were few. Hermione ended up asking him to come with her to the Library.

"Wait, what if you talk to her sister?" Harry said, peering at the Hufflepuff table next to theirs, where Adamaris sat among her housemates and friends. "What if she knows something. Didn't you say you know her?"

Ron stiffed at once.

"Wouldn't hurt to try," said Hermione, watching the girl. "Can you talk to her, Ron?"

"I… guess," Ron said, though he looked like his tie was too tight around his neck.

"It's decided then," said Hermione. "Let's do it after classes and meet in the Tower later."

The rest of the day Harry ran over what he'd say to Bianca. He didn't expect her to tell him Hagrid's secret just because he asked, and, although she was his apprentice, he doubted she would let something slip like he did.

Charms was the last lesson of the day, and as soon as Flitwick dismissed them, Harry raced down the stairs of the castle, rushing past the great doors of the entrance and making for the forest at the edge of the grounds. The sky was darkening fast, with the sun about to finish its journey, almost hidden behind the mountains in the distance, and Harry saw the lights on inside Hagrid's hut.

Standing outside, he went through what he'd say one last time and knocked. When no one answered, Harry didn't lose time opening the unlocked door and walking in. As expected, he found the girl down in the enchanted basement.

Harry descended the stairs to a snow-covered land, with bone-chilling winds hissing by his ear and high-pointed mountains far away on the horizon. The blonde stood at the feet of an enormous black bird about the five times her height. The round head identified it as something like an owl, but its big eyes were a starry sky instead of the usual yellow.

"Hello, Harry," said Bianca without turning.

"Hi," he said back. "Is that an owl?"

"No," she said. A bloody, half a deer floated from inside the bucket at her feet. The bird caught it from the air. "It's a Peruvian Cazador. They share ancestry with owls."

"Oh, I see," said Harry. "That's sweet."

"He is beautiful," said a deep voice above their heads. It took Harry a moment to notice it came from the bird. It fixed its unusual eyes on him.

"He can speak?!" said Harry.

"Don't mind him," said Bianca. "They can't really _speak_ ; only repeat voices from the memories of people around them."

"Would you like cake, dear? Gran will cook the best one just for you," it was the voice of an elderly woman that responded.

"Can I help you with anything, Harry?" asked Bianca.

Harry opened his mouth. What was he going to say again?

"I wanted to check on you," he said, "and see how… things are."

"I'm well," she said. The Cazador snatched another piece of meat from the air, splashing blood all over her robes. She vanished it with her wand. "The snakes should grow their wings soon, and the Cuco is making a good recovery."

"That's great," he said. Bianca put the bucket down and turned to face him.

"And how are you doing?" she said. Her eyes searched his face. "Not looking so good."

Harry reached inside his robes and retrieved the dreamcatcher she had given him months earlier. The alchemical stone at the middle had lost the shimmering light it once held inside. It was nothing more than a cold, dead rock now. He handed it to the girl.

She twisted a couple times, rubbing the stone between her fingers.

"How long has it been like this?" she asked.

"A couple weeks," he said. "I did nothing, it just stopped working."

"Empty… I thought it'd take longer..." Bianca said, then she closed the distance between herself and Harry and grasped the sides of his face with her left hand. A thumb pushed under his glasses and pull down at the skin under his left eye. "You haven't gone to the Infirmary."

Harry shook his head.

"I didn't know boys can be so stubborn," she said, lips thin.

"But why talk to Madam Pomfrey when I can talk to you?" Harry said.

Her eyebrows shot up. "Me?"

"Yes," he breathed out. "I know the monster on the third floor is causing everyone to stop dreaming. I'm the only one who still can and I think you know why."

Bianca stared at him, not even appearing surprised by what he said. The wind whistled around them, disheveling their hair and fluttering their robes as the two held each other gazes. The Peruvian Cazador seemed to watch them with interest.

"Come here, come here, let me read you a story… Once upon a time, there was a strong badger..." came the elderly woman's voice from the bird.

"Hagrid put something in there for Dumbledore," Harry continued. Still, the girl didn't speak. "Bianca, please - you have to tell me what's going on."

She averted her eyes.

"I can't," she said. "I can't tell you. Not you."

"What?!" he snapped. "Why can't you?!"

She turned around and walked back to the giant owl. "The year will end soon. Forget about it, Harry."

Harry stood there, trying to think. What could he say to make her tell him?

"I went to the third-floor corridor once," he said.

"Everyone did," she replied.

"While I was there, I dreamed I was in this house. I'm certain It was my parent's. In the dream, I tried looking for them but I found no one. I searched everywhere, except - except one room at the end. The door was closed. But before I opened it, this huge hooded… thing caught me, and I ran away. Professor Quirrell took me from the corridor. It took her a whole day to wake me up."

Bianca said nothing though Harry saw she was paying attention.

"She said I'm more affected than other people by that corridor, that I have worse memories than most. But I think it's more than that. There's something wrong with me, I'm sure of it now. Something happened that makes Hagrid's creature ignore me and makes me have all those dreams. Like something I'm supposed to remember. And I'm starting to believe somehow the answer is in that room. If I could just go back there one more time..."

He heard her sigh, and when she turned her eyes were downcast.

"Knowing its name will not help you," she said. Her voice was not unkind. "You can't defeat it with magic. If you go there again you'll end up hurting yourself. Let it go."

"Please, Bianca, I need to know," he pleaded one more time.

"No, Harry..."

" _Please._ "

Her face hardened. "No."

Harry felt the blood rushing up to his head, but he was powerless to stop it.

"Who cares if I get hurt?! What's the problem with it?!" he blurted out. "If I want to get hurt, then it's nobody's business but mine! Why is everyone so concerned, anyway?!"

Bianca didn't flinch. "Listen to what you're saying," she said. "Do you believe I or anyone else will send you on your way to die because you think it's your right? Don't be so spoiled."

"Spoiled?! You're calling _me_ spoiled?! What do you even know about me?!"

"I know you're acting like a real brat right now. Your safety is a responsibility of the school, it's not your business to do whatever you what."

Harry laughed without humour. "That's rich! Does our safety even matter to Professor Dumbledore? He told everyone to go after the Grail in the first place, which, thanks to you, I can guess is being protected by dark magic! And if he and Hagrid are so concerned about the students while putting dark creatures inside the school, I can imagine they're pretty damn stu-"

"Harry," Bianca interrupted him. Her voice was very, very calm. "If you insult Hagrid, I won't be able to forgive you."

Harry stopped. The words choked in his throat, fighting to get out.

He wanted to keep shouting despite her warning, he wanted to scream until somehow she told him what he wanted to hear. Yet he didn't. Some part of him didn't want to throw hurtful words at her, no matter how hurt the other parts felt. Perhaps he already knew it was useless; he missed his chance when he lost his temper.

"You're making a mistake, James," the Cazador spoke with the voice of a young woman. He ignored the bird.

Harry huffed as he glared at the blonde girl. She held his gaze with her ever soft turquoise eyes.

He gritted his teeth. "Fine."

He spun on his heels and marched away from the basement, stepping so hard that the wooden staircase tremble under him. Out of Hagrid's hut and into the grounds, he didn't slow down, striding right inside the castle. Students returning from dinner jumped out of his path as he made his way to the Gryffindor Tower.

He barged in through the Fat Lady's portrait, drawing out a yelp from the painting, scanned the room one, two times for Ron and Hermione and finding none he let out a snarl and strode for the armchair by the fireplace.

The old leather took in his body, sinking by several inches, and the warmth of the fire washed over him like a thick blanket. His mind tuned out the noise of the room, his breathing slowed down, but bubbling feeling in his chest refused to go away.

It was the first time in his life someone called him spoiled. Him, Harry Potter, nephew of Vernon and Petunia Dursley. The boy in the cupboard under the stairs. Orphan. Spoiled. She didn't even mean it - just an off-hand comment meant as a comeback. Yet, it made his blood boil.

He wanted to figure this out. Was he wrong in being pushy? His parents had worked for some kind of dark wizard - who was likely to be a manic - and later died in suspicious circumstances by his hands. Said wizard might or might not be alive and trying to steal a miraculous relic from his school. And the guardian supposed to be protecting the relic which was also probably a dark creature, was singling Harry out for some reason. What was the connection? Why _he_?

He needed to know.

Harry rubbed his eyes under the glasses. The headache from the morning was threatening to come back, and his brain seemed to have expanded inside his skull. He pushed his head against the side of the chair, trying to clear his mind. He would think about this again when Ron and Hermione came back. For now, he needed to rest for a bit…

He woke up with calls of his name. Sitting up, he adjusted his askew glasses over his nose. Ron and Hermione stood above him. Around them, the common room was less crowded than when Harry arrived.

"Hi," he said. They dropped on the couch next to his armchair, Hermione setting her books by her side, and Ron slouching against the seat and closed his eyes, not unlike Harry had done earlier.

"Were you sleeping?" Hermione asked.

"Only a nap," he said, voice rough.

"I came back from the Library. I'm a bit tired myself," she said. She glanced around before reaching inside her robes and handing the Invisibility Cloak, folded, back to him. He tucked it away.

"Any luck?" he asked. She peeked at the stack of books, looking annoyed at them, and shook her head.

"Not this time. The Restricted Section is harder to navigate than I thought," she said and bit her lower lip. Harry had gone there once before and remembered how they hadn't been arranged in any order he could identify. "I searched about a dozen books on dreaming and even some about dark creatures, but none said anything about forcing you to stop dreaming. I want to go back tomorrow, there are lot more books I can't read."

"Alright, I'll go with you then," he said, "to help."

Hermione changed the topic. "Did you talk to Bianca Hufflepuff?"

The memory of their conversation stirred anger in his chest and made him want to go back to try again. But that boat had sailed. She'd never tell him anything now. Although, he wasn't sure if he could talk to her again without ending up in another shouting session. At least not for a while.

"I did," Harry said. "She knows what it is."

Hermione's face lightened immediately, and Ron opened his eyes. When he didn't continue, she spoke up.

"And?"

"She won't tell me."

Hermione breathed out in annoyance. "Did she at least tell you why?" she said.

"Nothing really. Just that we can't beat it with magic," Harry said. Somehow, he wasn't eager to share the rest of the conversation.

Hermione tapped her chin. "Something that can't be defeated with magic? Do you know of something like that, Ron?"

"No. Magic works on everything, right?" Ron said

"I need to go through my books, one of them must have something about it," she said, already reaching for the pile next to her, which, he guessed, she had borrowed on her way out of the Library. "It's a clue at least."

Harry turned to Ron, who had been looking forlorn since he arrived.

"What about you, Ron? Did Adamaris tell you anything?" he asked, though the answer was obvious.

"No. She's useless," he said in a stiff voice.

Harry dropped his shoulders and reclined back in the chair. Searching up the shelves of the Library was their best option of discovering the truth, but who knew how long it'd take for them to find it? And what if it wasn't there? They'd be wasting their time, which, with the exams coming up soon, would be limited. Wasn't there anything they _could_ do? A faster way?

An idea flashed in his mind.

"Hey, Hermione, do you keep a diary?" he spoke up. The girl raised her head from the book, cheeks flaring pink.

"Why are you asking?"

"I was wondering: do all girls keep diaries?" Harry said. "The kind of you write everything that's in your head or what happens during the day?"

"I think some do," said Hermione slowly, as though she was reluctant to betray all the girls everywhere.

"My sister does," said Ron. "I tried to open it once, and she almost had a heart attack. My ears are still ringing."

"So, what if Bianca also has one?" Harry said. Once he voiced it, the thought seemed to gain shape, giving him confidence. "She probably wrote what she found on it, right? We can check, it'd be easy with the Invisibility Cloak."

Hermione was scowling. "Do you want to read a girl's diary?" she said, sounding as if he had just suggested cheating on all their exams. Harry glanced at Ron, searching for support, but the boy was watching him, waiting for what he would say next.

But Harry was thinking fast and amended, "I mean, you do it. We can all sneak into Hufflepuff dormitory, and you search the diary up, while Ron and I watch the door to see if anyone's coming."

Hermione looked torn, but Ron seemed to consider it.

"We can follow one of them back to their common room," the redhead said. "Nobody'd see us with the cloak."

Harry's face split up into a smile, glad his father had left such a great item to him.

"It's worth trying," Hermione said, though she didn't seem happy about it.

"Let's go tomorrow," he hurried to say. "She probably spends all her time at Hagrid's."

That night again had Harry trashing about on his sheets, sleep filled with dreams he didn't make head and tails of. And, in the morning, he was just as tired as the previous day. Classes went by without registering in his mind as he counted the hours until the afternoon, when they'd attempt the break-in.

Harry wanted to do it as soon as possible. Having the last period free on Wednesdays, they agreed to go after the transfiguration lesson, when most of the school would be in class. The problem was, Ron had to drop by his club room before joining them.

"Calm down, Harry," Hermione said as she watched her friend pace back and forth.

They were standing in front of the Great Hall, waiting for the redhead to arrive. Thanks to Daphne and her friend Tracey, Harry suspected the Hufflepuff Common Room was located somewhere near to the kitchen.

"What's taking him so long?!"

Ron was late by half an hour.

"Maybe something held him back," Hermione reasoned.

Harry groaned. "The next Hufflepuff that walks by, we're going," he said in a final tone.

And as if the universe had heard his words, two sixth-years wearing yellow turned around the corner, chatting in loud voices.

"...I just wanna take a nap. Professor Sprout's lessons are fun, but they are so tiring!" one girl whined. If they found two first-years doing nothing but stand about and watch them stroll past suspicious, they didn't show.

"C'mon!" Harry whispering, pulling the invisibility cloak from inside his robes. He threw it over their heads and, trying to step lightly, trailed the two friends. Hermione had trouble keeping up.

As predicted, the Hufflepuff went down the stairs toward a passage he knew well. The cloak made their own descent harder, and they had to hurry to catch up to the girls again once they reached stony corridor leading to the kitchen. They walked past the painting of the big silver bowl, going farther into the hallway, and stopped at a dark recess, right before a pile of old barrels atop each other and seemly forgotten.

Appearing as if she had done it a thousand times before, a girl raised her arm and knocked one barrel about six times. At once, its lid rose for her, and the girl crawled inside on all fours, not unlike a real badger. Her friend followed, then the barrel closed.

Harry and Hermione were speechless.

"Is - Is that the entrance?" she shrieked. Harry threw the cloak off them and walked up to inspect the pile.

"Must be," he said.

The urge to knock on them and verify its hollowness was strong, but he remembered Daphne telling him Tracey would always get drenched in vinegar trying to break in there. Of course she would, he thought, she didn't know the code. In Gryffindor, The Fat Lady would refuse to open her portrait if a student didn't tell her the password. Helga Hufflepuff, it seemed, took it one step further and taught the would-be trespasser a lesson as well.

Harry grinned. That lesson he would not be learning.

"Let's go, Hermione," he called the girl. Holding the cloak in her arms, she joined him before the barrels.

Recalling the girl's movements, he aimed for the one at the middle of the second row, second from the ground up. Three knocks, a brief pause, two knocks, and a last, stronger one. Like before, the lid opened, revealing the barrel had no bottom but instead gave way a tunnel carved out in the earth.

The passage was _just_ big enough for them. He threw the cloak over them once more, and again repeated the girls' actions, creeping up the tunnel on his knees and arms, Hermione at his side. The dirty path was not long, though at some point it sloped upwards, before opening into an odd chamber.

Round and low-ceilinged, the Hufflepuff Common Room reminded him of a flattened bubble. Everything inside was in the colours of black and yellow, and the various plants placed around gave it an air of life. The windows, small and round like the ones in old caravel decks and high enough that they saw the ground and grass through them, circled the room, showering it with so much light Harry wondered what sort of enchantment was in place.

Fixed at the only flat part of the wall and between two circular doors, was the portrait of an elegant, blonde witch wearing what appeared to be an ancient golden, frilly ball gown. Her aqua-coloured eyes scanned the place, full of warmth and pride.

The room was empty, and Harry was glad luck was on his side for once. The girls from earlier, he guessed, had already moved on to their dormitory.

"I can't believe they have to crawl every time," whispered Hermione. "It's so - so… inconvenient!"

"Wonder if they ever hit each trying to go out..." he said, his eyes fixed on the two doors neighbouring the portrait. He nudged Hermione on the shoulder. "Which one is the girl's dormitory?"

"I… don't know," she admitted. The doors were plain honey-coloured, rich wood, but held no signs.

"Well, it's not a riddle, we can check," he said, stepping toward the one on the right.

"No, Harry!" she held him by the arm. "Did you forget? Boys can't get into the girls' dorms. _Hogwarts A History_ says each Common Room has a different jinx to stop them. If you get closer to the wrong door, everyone will learn we're here."

"Does the book say what the jinxes are?"

"No..."

"I can't stay here, and you can't go without the cloak," Harry said. "What do we do? We should have thought about it yesterday."

"There must be a way to figure out where each one goes," Hermione said. She raised the cloak up to her eyes and watched the doors intensely for several minutes, seeming to think so hard her brow and nose almost met.

A smile tugged at the edge of Harry's lips. "What would Sherlock Holmes search for?"

Hermione's head turned so fast at him he had to dodge her hair. "You read Sherlock Holmes too?"

"A bit, in school," he said. "I never read much."

"Oh, Harry, you should," she said. "I have his entire collection, I can lend it to you during summer."

"Thanks, I'd like that," he said, imagining the many hours he'd have to stay at the Dursleys unable to do magic. "So, do you think he'd solve this one?"

"Oh, absolutely," Hermione said. "But I have no idea how. _I_ 'm not the best detective in the world."

"No, but Sherlock Holmes wasn't a wizard either."

Hermione's eyebrows slowly rose to meet her bushy bangs. She turned again to the doors.

"Oh, I know!" she said. "There's a jinx here somewhere. Do you remember this week's Defence lessons?"

Harry grimaced. "Sorry, I was a bit..."

"It was about jinxes and curses!" Hermione said. "There's a spell to verify if something is jinxed - we can use it to find out what triggers the alarm."

"That's brilliant!" said Harry. "What should we use it on first?"

Hermione pondered for a minute.

"What about these carpets?" Harry pointed out. In the format of a half-circles, long green carpets lay before each door, forcing everyone who wanted to go through to walk on it. "We don't have those in Gryffindor, do we?"

"You're right - let's get closer, Harry."

They crouched before one rug. Up close, they saw it was not made of wool, but of long and wide fibres that looked more like... grass. Hermione pointed her wand at it.

" _Tribulatio Revelio_ ," she said. Nothing happened.

"Did you do it right?" Harry asked.

"Of course I did!" Hermione said. "Let's try the other one."

They moved to the rug by the right door, and Hermione tried the spell again. This time, a blue glow spread along the length of the carpet before fading out. Harry and Hermione grinned at each other.

"So I guess if I step on this something will happen and the alarm will sound," said Harry, examining the rug. It was big for a carpet, with about a ten feet radius and plenty of room beyond the edges of the door. "I don't know if I can jump that far."

"Let's use those," said Hermione, pulling Harry with her.

She took many of the stuffed stools scattered around the common room. The cloak made it difficult to hold them, so Harry helped by taking a few. If anyone were to enter the chamber they would see two piles of cushions floating towards the dormitories.

Together, Harry and Hermione threw the stools over the carpet to create a path to walk over.

"That can't work, it's too simple," said Harry.

"Did you know I could just levitate you to the top of the stairs back in the Gryffindor Tower?" said Hermione. "Let's go, Harry, try to step only on the pillows - be careful with the cloak."

She took his hand, and together they stepped over the first cushion, one foot after the other. They stood there for a few seconds, holding their breaths for a sudden alarm going off. When nothing happened, and silence still reigned, they sighed in relief.

"Let me open the door," Hermione said when they walked onto the last stool.

A long corridor with seven doors lined up composed the girl's dormitory, not different from their own Common Room.

"Which one?" Harry asked.

"First years are closest the entrance in Gryffindor," Hermione said. "Maybe it's like this here too. Let's try the third one."

Before going in, Harry turned back to the carpet.

"We can't let these lying around," he said. He flung the cushions way with the Knockback Jinx, uncaring if they landed far from where he picked them.

The third door along the corridor was the one they wanted, and his friend did the honours again, casting the Unlocking Charm at the door. The dorm's only notable difference from his own were the wooden bedsteads - he and the boys slept in four-posters.

Finding Bianca's bed was easy; a picture of the third-year and her sister rested atop the nightstand of the farthermost set.

"Watch the corridor, Harry," said Hermione, walking out of the cloak. "I'll search the drawers."

Harry positioned himself by the door, eyes focused on the entrance. The only sound came from Hermione ruffling through Bianca's possessions.

"I can't find it," the girl said after a while. "It's not here!"

"What about her trunk?" Harry threw over his shoulder.

A large chest resting in front of the bedstead had the yellow and black colours of the house, and Hermione hurried to it. She was about to try her wand at the lock when Harry saw the door to the corridor coming open. Through it walked none other than Bianca Hufflepuff.

Harry stumbled back into the room. As fast as he could with the cloak, he ran to Hermione's side, pulling her under.

"Harry, wha-!"

"Shh, Bianca's here, she is coming!" he whispered, dragging her to the other side of the room.

The blonde girl ambled into the bedroom, stopping a second to check the unclosed door. Her eyes scanned the place from left to right, and Harry felt his body stiff. How unlucky was it she'd return to the dormitory at that exact time?

Bianca moved to her nightstand, proceeding to search the top drawer. Harry hoped Hermione hadn't messed it up too much, lest the girl notice someone looked through it. She didn't seem to notice though, because next she walked to the trunk, opening it with a flick of her wand. From inside she retrieved a couple of books, which she threw with little care atop the mattress, and then a square, folded parchment.

Bianca touched the blank paper with the tip of her wand before saying:

 _"I solemnly swear that I am up to no good."_

However, no sooner those words left her mouth, the door thundered with a heavy knocking. Bianca's head snapped back to the entrance, and with a look of annoyance he hadn't seen before on her face she tapped the parchment again and said, " _Mischief managed_ ," before throwing it back into the trunk.

At the door was her sister, Adamaris Hufflepuff, who barged inside as soon as Bianca allowed her to enter. Her face was red, and her eyes were brimming with tears.

"You won't believe Ron's gall!" she burst out, stomping around the room. "He came to ask me again today - again! - about that stupid third-floor! I already told him I knew nothing yesterday!"

"Wasn't that what you wanted?" Bianca said, her face remaining impassive. Harry wondered if that was a common occurrence."For you two to talk again."

"He spends months without even looking at me and thinks somehow he has the right to question me whenever he wants!" Adamaris continued her rant. "Well, I don't! And it's not like I know anything anyway!"

"His friend put him to it," Bianca told her. "Harry came to ask me that himself."

It was like Adamaris couldn't even hear her sister speaking.

"But d'you know what he said?! That I'm lying! That because I'm your sister, I have to know whatever you do with that professor of yours! He called me a liar...! You know - you know what? I don't care anymore, Ron can be as stupid and dumb as he wants because I don't want to talk to him either!"

And then she twisted away from the older girl and stomped out of the dormitory without another word, not even bothering to close the door. Bianca rubbed her eyes and sighed. With one lasting peer at her trunk, she walked out of the room.

Harry and Hermione waited for their steps to die out before breathing again.

"What was that...?" Hermione wondered aloud.

"I think we found out where Ron was," Harry said.

"We must thank him later. Let's go, we have little time." Hermione pulled him back to the bedstead, throwing the cloak off them both.

"What if she comes back? There's no way you can read it so fast," Harry said.

"We'll have to take the diary - oh, we'll have to return it later," she said, bringing out his wand and pointing it at the chest. " _Alohomora_! Let's search for it together, that way will be faster."

The trunk's lid jumped open, revealing it to be filled with books and magazines of varied themes and subjects. Hermione thrust the blank paper from earlier into Harry's hand, as she peered through the contents of the chest with deft skill. School textbooks, catalogues of magical and non-magical animals, wizard and muggle fiction, children poem tales, witches tabloid magazines, even muggle comic books, it seemed Bianca owned just about every kind of book.

Except for diaries.

"It's not here either," Hermione said, a tone of anxiety in her voice.

"It has to be here! Where else would it be?"

Hermione looked at him. "Harry… what if she doesn't have one?"

Harry gulped, and a drop of sweat ran down his brow. That hadn't even crossed his mind. "Let's do it more time, alright? Maybe we missed it."

Hermione put herself once more to the task. Though not for the same reasons, Harry knew she wanted to find the truth as much as himself. Why couldn't this damned diary be on top of her bed table? Was every road forward littered with nothing but rocks?

Harry considered the parchment in his hands, trying to contain his rising frustration. Oh, right, didn't Bianca do something with that piece of paper? Was it enchanted? He brought his wand to it, trying to recall the words.

 _"I solemnly swear that I am up to no good."_

From the tip of his wand, ink sprouted out of white nothingness, spreading throughout the papers like blood filling a circulatory system. Hallways, rooms, floors, bathrooms - slowly the lines connected into the clear form of a map. Hogwarts' map.

At the centre he saw the Great Hall, with the kitchens below; the Gryffindor Tower way above with its circled design, the Transfiguration classroom, Charms classroom, Potions, Astronomy, History of Magic, even Herbology's greenhouses. He recognised them all.

But there was more. Every one of these places was filled with little dots, moving about or staying put in tight rows. Each pair was accompanied with a small label, and Harry's breath caught in his throat when he read them.

There was Minerva McGonagall and a dozen others names - some he knew to be Slytherins. Severus Snape alone in the dungeons. He saw Bianca and Adamaris in the Hufflepuff Common Room, and a couple walls next to them, Hermione Granger and Player stood close together. And walking down the third-floor corridor, coming from the room of the Challenge was…

...Lord Voldemort.


	14. The Dragons' Treasure

**AN: Thanks to everyone who reviewed, followed and favorited. And a very big Thank You to** **Lindsiria who helped me with this chapter during all these months and made it happen.**

* * *

 **Chapter Fourteen: The Dragons' Treasure**

"I'm telling you, I saw nothing."

Back in Gryffindor Tower, inside the first-years boy's dormitory, Hermione sat on Harry's bed, while he paced in the middle of the room.

"His name was right there on the map," Harry said and sighed out in exasperation. "'Lord Voldemort', and his little steps all over the third floor."

"There was nothing there, Harry," Hermione said.

"Maybe you imagined it?" came a voice from Ron's bed. The boy laid on the mattress, arms under his head, watching his two friends. Ron had already been there when Harry and Hermione arrived.

"I did not imagine it," he said, pivoting. "It was there, I saw it."

"Why didn't you bring the map back with you then?" Ron said. Harry walked up to the window, looking out the dark landscape outside, and crossed his arms. Ron looked at Hermione.

"... Harry was showing it to me, but then we heard footsteps coming from the corridor..." she said. "He panicked and dropped it in the trunk, then dragged us back under the cloak."

He felt his cheeks warm. "She'd have seen us," he grunted. "She almost did."

"Then let's go back tomorrow, or after tomorrow," Ron said. "That way we can all check the map."

Hermione shook her head. "It's impossible. We made a mess — there was no time to put her things back where they were."

"So... she probably knows someone went through her stuff."

"That's right," said Hermione. "She'll guard them better now."

"And no diary?"

"We already told you that."

He heard Ron sigh. "Man, what a disaster."

But diaries were the last thing in Harry's mind at the moment. He knew what he saw on that map.

"Forget about that," he said, twisting to face them. "Voldemort is alive and inside Hogwarts. We have to do something about it."

"Slow down, mate," said Ron, holding a hand up. "How do you know the map's not some joke item from Zonko's or something like that? We can't go believing everything we see."

Harry bit the inside of his mouth. Ron's scepticism as of late was beginning to annoy him. His friend spoke reason, but something inside him couldn't let these things go.

Until then, Harry had not mentioned the meeting with the prince and princess many months before. He had let the possible theft of the Holy Grail slip from all their minds, even his own, focusing instead on solving the mystery of his parents' death. Somewhere along he had forgotten — or perhaps ignored — the two were related, by the way of the culprit. He wasn't supposed to tell, but if there ever was a situation calling for it, this was it.

"I didn't tell you everything..." he began.

He proceeded to disclose what occurred on the night Quirrell smuggled him inside Dumbledore's office, down to what he could remember from their conversation. When he was finished, Ron sat up on his bed, and Hermione's gaze was fixed on the floor.

"... they thought it was someone working for him, but now we know: it's Voldemort himself. He is the thief," Harry finished.

Ron was the first to speak up. "Could've told us," he whined.

"My master asked me not to," Harry said. Ron threw his head back.

"Bloody hell, there's a dark wizard lurking around inside Hogwarts," he said.

"We told you back at Christmas."

"To be honest, I thought you two had lost your marbles." Ron laughed nervously. "This is serious."

"I'm sorry for not telling you sooner," Harry said. "You too, Hermione."

Harry looked at the girl, prepared for everything: hurt and even anger. Hermione, head bowed and wide eyes lowered, was smiling.

"Hermione?"

"... I was right," she said, voice a bit crazed, and chuckled to herself. "It's really a trap… I really solved it."

Harry and Ron stared at her, mouths ajar. Then Hermione jumped to her feet.

"We need to tell someone," she said.

"... glad to have you back," Ron said under his breath, somewhat freaked out.

"It's likely they don't know the thief is inside Hogwarts already, otherwise they would have ensured our safety. Professor Quirrell is gone, and we only have two weeks before the year ends — this is the perfect time for Voldemort to try something. We don't have a choice, we have to go to Professor Dumbledore."

Ron scoffed. "A great idea, Hermione — Professor Dumbledore, we happened to break into the Hufflepuff Common Room yesterday and saw Voldemort's name in a map of Hogwarts we found inside a third-year girl's trunk — Is that true, Miss Granger, perhaps we should look at this map? — Err, the thing is, Professor, only Harry can read his name," he said, changing his voice as he went. "Yeah, that's bound to go well."

Hermione was scowling by the time Ron finished his impersonations. "... is that why you didn't come? Because you thought it was stupid?"

Ron flushed and averted his gaze to the ceiling of his bed. "That's not what I meant," he said. "I wanted to go, I was just… held up."

Neither Harry nor Hermione said anything to that. Though Ron didn't make it in time to accompany them, his talk with Bianca's sister around the same time turned out to be essential for their investigation.

"Ron's right," Harry told them. "He'd never believe us. We must do something else."

"Do you have a plan?" said Ron.

"Not yet..."

"Then we better think of something fast."

However, as the last two weeks of classes passed by, neither of them could come up with a solution for the Voldemort problem. Harry would never quite remember how he got through those final weeks when he half expected Voldemort to get the Holy Grail at any moment. Yet, as the days crept by, and they threw themselves into their activities, there was no doubt that the third corridor had yet to be breached.

Ron spent almost every hour outside of lectures in Duelling Club, while Harry spent his on the Quidditch pitch, where Oliver Wood ran the team through practice drills with a fanatical devotion for the last game against Hufflepuff. At night, Hermione saw them devour their textbooks and homework for the exams, and the professors seemed to have gained a second wind, pushing them to their limits on the few lessons they had left.

The dreams never left him, and the numbness in his mind continued unfaltering. Fortunately, exam week was over before he knew it. They were, he was glad to find, easier than he had expected and less complex than Hermione led them to believe. No spell was beyond him, and for the written tests, she had drilled the answers into their heads well enough. Even Ron had to admit, if she knew anything, it was how to study.

The girl herself became a house star as she handed in her projects for the classes. With a soft smile, McGonagall had awarded her a hundred points for a five feet essay and a flawless transfiguration of her desk into a life-sized, jade statue of a panther. Flitwick, Sinistra, and the others followed with more points, and even Binns' ghostly features looked impressed at detailed biographies of the key figures in the First Goblin Rebellion.

Her last trial took place in the dungeons, the very last exam of the term — potions. Winning Snape's points meant she would have achieved the first place in all classes. No easy feat by any means.

Three students were brave enough to turn up with a project. Hermione, Millicent Bulstrode, and Draco Malfoy stood at the front of the class, backs straight as boards and cauldrons before them. Snape had begun with Bulstrode and peered at her dark brown mixture.

"What did she make?" Harry whispered to Daphne.

"Looks like Wideye, but the colour's wrong," she murmured back.

A moment later, Snape stepped away from her cauldron without a word and moved on to Hermione's. Harry and Daphne shared a look.

"...this is so boring," a voice muttered behind them. "Why do we have to stay here? The test is over."

They glanced back over their shoulders. Tracey Davis was slouching over the table, and face buried in her arms.

"Figures Snape would try to keep the torture on as long he can." Ron sighed by her side. "Can't he give it out already?"

"Yeah, everyone knows Granger's gonna win," Tracey said.

"Hmm — I'm not so sure," Daphne said. Tracey raised her head, and Ron snickered.

"She hasn't lost a single time yet," he said.

"Granger's made a Pepperup potion," Daphne said, turning to inspect the contents of Hermione's cauldron again. "But it looks something thicker than it's supposed to be. Draco's looks better."

Snape, who by then stood in front of Malfoy, stepped away and announced: "A perfectly brewed Hiccoughing Solution, Mr Malfoy. One hundred points to Slytherin."

A joyous murmur ran among the green-clad students in the classroom, and Daphne turned to the redhead boy with a smirk. At the front, the three were left to pick up their belonging and return to their seats, and downcast Hermione joined Pansy Parkinson, who did nothing to hide her smug smile.

Ron glowered at Daphne. "If you're so good," he said. "Why didn't you make something?"

"I've won Slytherin enough points already," the blonde said. "And I'll be winning the potions competition in three days."

"Confident, isn't she?" Ron said to Tracey.

"That's Daphne for you. And you, Ron? Are you feeling confident for Monday?"

Ron crossed his arms. "You bet I am," he said, but Harry caught the slight trepidation in his voice. "Snape won't be able to play favourites when I knock Malfoy out of the platform and on his arse."

Snape, Harry had learned, was the professor responsible for the Duelling Club and oversaw most of their official activities such as competitions. He alternated with Fred, George, and Lee between watching the duels whenever the Potions Professor was referring, afraid he might catch on their financial enterprise.

"Heh, that would be interesting to see," said Tracey. "Are you two coming to watch the tournament?"

"No," Daphne said before Harry could even open his mouth. "It's at the same time as our contest."

"Sorry, Ron," Harry said.

The redhead shrugged. "It's alright."

Harry watched Tracey from the corner of his eyes. "I didn't know you liked to watch duels."

"Why would you? You almost never goes," Tracey said. "Ron is my follower number two, of course, I'd come to see him compete."

He sniggered. "Who's number one?"

"Daphne," she said. "But I'll let you be number three if you ask nicely."

Harry smiled. He had come to know the girl better during his weekly sessions of potion-making with her friend, on which Tracey would sometimes tag along out of sheer boredom. Daphne had been right about the girl: she was one of the silliest he ever met — her dream was to one day become a Dark Lady. Sometimes he even suspected she was serious.

He also liked the girl for another, simpler reason: she was the one other person he saw to wear round-rimmed spectacles. About his own height and just as thin if not for her light brown hair and dark blue eyes their resemblance would have been striking.

Snape chose that moment to dismiss the class, and unlike the other professors he offered no words of parting or wished them a good vacation. The massive summer homework he handed out the week before.

Harry was halfway to the exit when Snape called him back.

"Potter, stay."

Harry halted on his feet, and Ron stared at him with wide eyes before being dragged away by Tracey. Daphne glanced at him before leaving with them. A feeling of deja vu hung over Harry as the students emptied the room and the great double doors closed behind them. It was gone as soon as he glanced over the teacher's desk. She had been standing; Snape was sitting down.

"Sir?" He said, walking up to the front of the classroom. Snape rested his elbows on the wood and had his fingers interlaced. His ugly face betrayed nothing.

"Your… master has contacted me," Snape said. Harry fought to keep his own expression still. "She requested that I register you for the annual Duelling Championship."

After two months with no news from her, hearing about Quirrell from Snape left a bad taste in Harry's mouth. Where was she? What happened after she ran back to her bedroom, yelling for him to go back to the Common Room? Was she all right? Why couldn't she speak to him?

He said nothing, and Snape continued.

"You are past the due date for entries, and your performance in this class is lamentable, to say the least," said Snape, a sneer founding its usual place on his chapped lips. "Tell me, Potter, why should I grant you the special treatment you so obviously crave?"

Snape seemed to be under the impression Harry himself had asked Quirrell to make that request. The heat crept up Harry's neck, and he looked away from the man, to the blackboard behind him. Written in white chalk were the instructions for that day's potion — topics to be addressed on their test. Quirrell hadn't used hers once, he remembered.

"Because I would probably win."

His eyes returned to the professor, in time to see the small, condescending smile melt away. Snape's hand slip off the desk, and he reclined back against his chair. For a long while, neither spoke.

"Did you know, Potter," Snape said, his voice dropping an octave, "Years ago, I happened to be acquainted with your father."

Harry hid his surprise but just barely.

"No, Professor," he replied. The connection came so fast he didn't know how he had never thought of it before. Snape, and his parents, had worked for Voldemort — if anyone could tell him about their time under his service, that person would be the potions master.

"Your bear a striking resemblance to him," Snape said, and Harry recalled the young man in the mirror that stared at back him with a face that was his own. The professor seemed to catch his thoughts from the air, and an expression of curiosity took over his features. "Not your appearance. Like you, he convinced himself of his exceptional talent. A praise here, a word of acclaim there left him with a head so swollen we had to wonder how his body sustained the weight of it."

Harry grasped the sides of his robes. It was obvious then why the man never approached him to discuss the matter. Snape disliked his father as much as he did Harry. How could he not when Voldemort himself had killed James Potter? His dad must have done something to upset them all, the dark wizards.

"In the end, his arrogance amounted to less than nothing." Snape peered at him with cold eyes. "You would do well to learn from him and not bite into more than you can chew."

"My father was a hero," Harry blurted out, temper flaring. "He ended the war. He wasn't like you."

To his horror, Snape smiled. It was an ugly sight, cold and cruel.

"It seems you're not completely ignorant then. Is that the fantasy you've cooked up in that pompous head of yours?" The professor said, so amused Harry felt he might vomit. "Your father, righteous man he was, stood up to the evil dark wizard and gloriously went out fighting for what is good, taking the villain down with him. Is that right, or might have I missed any details?"

Harry bit his tongue. Snape voicing out loud the thoughts swimming in his mind for ages. It made him sick.

"I will allow you to take part in the tournament. You shall have the chance to discover how mediocre you truly are."

"Is that everything, sir?" Harry said from between clenched teeth.

"You may leave."

He turned and marched on heavy steps towards the door. The handle was on his grasp when Snape spoke again.

"Your father was not a hero, Potter, and neither are you."

Outside, he found Ron, Tracey, and Daphne waiting for him. Hermione must have gone ahead without them.

"What did Snape want?" Ron said as soon he stepped out.

"He… gave me a message from Quirrell."

"Oh, right," said Ron as they walked away from the potions classroom. "Anything important?"

"She wanted me to know she's doing fine," he lied. "Told me to study hard for the exams. I'm almost certain Snape was supposed to tell me earlier."

Ron snorted. "He was hoping you'd do bad."

"He's out of luck," said Harry.

Tracey fell in step next to Ron. "You're always assuming Professor Snape is terrible."

"I'm not assuming," Ron replied. "I can see it clearly."

* * *

"I'm not saying Malfoy isn't a good brewer," Hermione was telling them Monday morning. "I'm just asking how can someone honestly rate a second-year potion below a first-year one. It's so much more complex! Did you know we have to buy at least the double amount of what we bought this year and fifteen new ingredients for the next one? Do you know what they're for?"

Harry's cup stopped on his lips. Hermione was looking straight at him. He glanced at Ron, who had sausage on his fork halfway to an open mouth.

"Brew potions?" he said.

"Second year introduces medicinal potions," she continued. "Some of them take days to be finished and if not made properly, they can have devastating effects on your health. A Pepperup can save you from hypothermia. Compare that to stopping… hiccups. It's ridiculous, don't you think?"

"I do, it's bollocks," said Ron. The plate on his legs was empty and had his eyes on Hermione's toasts. "You're gonna eat that?"

"And it wasn't even that good," Hermione went on. "The book says the Hiccoughing Potion should be the colour of cinnamon, but that was clearly cocoa brown."

Harry downed the rest of his pumpkin juice, setting the cup on the low table in front of their seats. They were having breakfast in Gryffindor Tower as the Great Hall was closed due to the Duelling Championship preparations, and he had never seen the Common Room so full. It had forced Neville Longbottom and him to share an armchair so they could all eat together.

"I… have to duel Malfoy today," Neville spoke from his side. His skin had a greenish tone to it, beads of sweat dotted his forehead, and his breakfast remained untouched. "He's going to clobber me."

They scheduled the first and second-year stages of the Duelling Championship for later that day in the Great Hall, and the stakes were not in favour of the plump boy. Malfoy was one of the best duellists in their year while Neville was… less than exceptional.

"You don't know that," Hermione bit out. "There is no way Malfoy had the time to make that potion and practice for the tournament. I'm sure you'll do fine."

Neville whimpered. "I haven't won a single duel yet, Hermione. I wish I could stay here."

"There's always the first time, and you are a better wizard than Malfoy will ever be," said Harry. He let that rest for a moment before adding, "But if you don't like it, why did you join the club?"

"My grandma said I had to. All great wizards were part of it during their time at Hogwarts," said Neville, playing with this food. "My dad too."

"But if you don't want to..." Harry said.

"I think your grandma's right," said Ron. "Just treat it like… homework! No one likes homework, but we all have to do it, don't we? It's the same. Plus, there were a lot of famous members, even the Usurper."

That didn't seem to motivate the boy, and he shrunk even more in his side of the seat.

"Are you sure that's good advice, Ron?" Hermione chided the redhead, and Harry faced away from the discussion that followed to meet the approaching form of Oliver Wood.

"Hey, Harry," he said, crouching down to his eye-level. "How it's going? Look, you know how we have the last match of the year, right? Hufflepuff."

"I do."

"Well, you know how your friend Greengrass got us in a tight spot. It's bad but not as bad as the previous years — what I'm trying to say is we're not out yet. All we need is a three-hundred points score and a two-hundred points lead difference, and the cup is ours."

"But we never scored that high!"

Wood made a face. "I know. But I think I may have a solution — you're not in any other clubs, are you? "

Harry shook his head.

"Good, good… The match's happening on Thursday, second to last day before we gotta catch the train back home. We have little time, but what do you say we fit in a couple practice rounds later in the afternoon until the match?"

"Do you think that could help?" Harry said.

"Worth a shot, right?" Wood said hopefully.

"...right."

"Knew I could count on you, Harry." Wood smiled, patted him on the shoulder and left.

The grandfather clock by the door read half to ten; a little over three hours until the start of the potions competition and the duelling championship. He had put off deciding to which he would go for as long could, but time had run out. In truth, he had already decided. If there was even a remote chance he would meet Quirrell, he had to be in the tournament.

Over the weekend Harry tried to convince himself many times he wasn't feeling anxious, but it was hard to shake the sensation that some giant, unseen hands were ticking the clock of his life. One week to the end of the term, and time was running in more ways and… for more people than one. Wood wasn't the only one counting on him.

"I have to go," said Hermione, rising to her feet and running a hand over her robes. "The journal wants to cover all the events as soon as they start and they're gonna need everyone ready as early as possible."

"Good luck, Hermione," said Harry and Neville together. Ron grumbled something under his breath.

"Thank you, and good luck to you too. I'll see you all later today back in the Tower," she said and left. The boys lingered behind until they had all finished their breakfasts, at which point Ron dragged Neville away with him for some last minute practice.

At one o'clock the common room was almost empty, the students had left to watch the beginning of the competitions; most likely gone to the Great Hall. Harry sighed and stood up.

Despite the time they took to set it up, the place wasn't that different from its everyday form. A single, long table was placed on the middle of the hall, and dozens of smaller chairs surrounded it. The tall and wide windows bathed the room in natural light though Harry suspected there might be there some enchantment to keep the sun from hitting the duellers' eyes.

Being the first and second years cup, few students had shown up to watch, but at the high table, several professors had turned up, including McGonagall, Flitwick, and Sprout, but no Snape. Or Quirrell.

Harry found a familiar brunette head among the crowds of students, and Tracey turned to him when he sat down next to her.

"Harry? What are you doing here?" Was the first thing she said.

"I'm going to compete," he said.

"What? No, you aren't. Your name isn't even in. And what about Daphne? You're supposed to be working with her in the potions competition."

"I'm not going."

"Why? You're not making any sense," Tracey said, shaking her head. "You know Daphne can't compete without you, right?"

"I know."

"Then what ar—"

"I'm sorry, okay?!" Harry whispered forcefully. "Professor Quirrell asked Snape to sign me in, I had to come."

"And you didn't have a choice?"

Harry stayed silent for a second then shook his head.

"When was that?"

"Friday."

"When Professor Snape asked you to stay behind?" Harry nodded and watched Tracey's eyes slowly enlarge behind her round spectacles.

"What?" was his turn to say.

"You said Quirrell wished you luck on the exams. You lied... Daphne is going to be soooo mad at you!"

"That's why I didn't tell her — I'll just apologise later."

Tracey sent him a look that made him feels like she was pitying him immensely.

"Did it start already?" He changed the subject.

"A couple minutes ago," she said. "There were two duels already. Draco beat one of you Gryffindors bad."

Harry felt for Neville, but that didn't surprise him. Years one to four were competing on the first day of the tournament, and the youngest were up first. It was rare that duel between eleven years old took more than three minutes.

"Where's Ron? Did he go already?" Harry said.

"No, but he's the next after Hufflepuff."

As if on cue, the referee, a seventh-year from the club, called the names of Adamaris Hufflepuff and her adversary.

She settled on one end of the table while her first-year opponent from Ravenclaw stood on the other. The boy adopted the basic stance taught by the club: body facing the other duellist and arm folded upward. Adamaris had a personal one of one arm positioned behind her back and the other outstretched forward.

"Ugh, I hate her," Tracey said.

Harry did not share Tracey's sentiment for the Hufflepuff but he could not deny he found in Adamaris everything he thought he would find in Daphne. Every time he saw the girl, friends surrounded her, laughing at some joke or another people looked eager to tell her. Always at the centre, always at the front. Despite this, she paid little attention to them once they finished entertaining her. And in classes, though he knew she did well, she seemed to dislike all the ones they shared.

To tell the truth, even after witnessing what he did in the Hufflepuff dormitories, Harry preferred her sister — the lonely, but kind, Bianca.

"She's gonna start with a charm," he told Tracey.

"How d'you know?" she said.

"Her arm. She's already pointing because of the wand motions — saves time," he said. His master had taught him so in one of their private lessons.

Tracey nodded. "Hmm."

The duel didn't last thirty seconds. The Ravenclaw boy missed his spell by a head after which Adamaris proceeded to levitate his clothes. Up in the air and swinging his arms, trying to fight the charm, the boy was an easy target for the Knockback Jinx. The girl hit him in the chest, and a moment later the Ravenclaw fell out of the platform.

She was good, but Harry couldn't help but think it was a risky move opening that way. She had expected the boy to miss, so she could have time to focus on his robes and charm them. Were Harry her opponent, he would not have given her that chance. First, he would not have missed. Second, he would not have stopped casting and wait to see if it had hit like many first, second, and even third-years did.

But then again, maybe she would not have used such a strategy against him.

The Hufflepuff hopped out of the table under the applause of the professor and fellow students and strolled back to her friends. At the other side of the room, Harry saw Ron and his own opponent getting ready to climb on the makeshift platform. It would be a few moments before they began.

"That was fast," said Tracey, sounding a little impressed.

"Yeah, she's the favourite for the first-year Duelling cup," Harry told her.

"What?! No! I bet Ron can beat her," Tracey replied and raised her nose into the air. "I wager I can beat her with my sword."

"How long is that sword?"

"Long enough, I reckon."

Ron and the other boy had clambered up the table to stand in the usual positions opposite to each other. They waited for a moment, then the referee gave his signal.

They both started with the Knockback Jinx, a popular spell among first years. Ron hit the other boy on the shoulder, and the boy hit him on the leg, but it was not enough to knock down either of them. Next, Ron's opponent directed the wand motions of Harry knew to be the tickling charm.

" _Flipendo!_ " shouted Ron. He hit his adversary somewhere around his stomach and shoved the boy back a couple feet onto the tab.

Good one, Ron, Harry thought, and Tracey cheered beside him. The other boy had been hasty and paid for it.

As per rules of duels, Ron waited for him to get back up. Once his opponent stood, they remained in their spots, Ron having an advantage as his opponent stood on the edge. At the prompt, they restarted, casting jinxes and hexes at the other. As it was, duels between first-years didn't last long, and the end soon came as the boy hit Ron's shoes with a sticking charm, depriving the redhead of the few steps he was allowed to take to avoid spells.

"Oh no," Tracey breathed beside him.

Ron's adversary seemed to take a moment to appreciate his own move. Ron, however, wasn't done.

" _Petrificus Totalus!_ " He yelled. The other boy went rigid and, after a moment when he swayed on his feet, fell flat on the table.

"Yes!" Tracey shouted, jumping to her feet.

With his opponent unable to continue, the referee declared Ron's victory, undid the charms on the boys, and told them to leave the platform. Tracey skipped to the redhead, with Harry walking behind. They reached him as he jumped out the platform.

"Congratulations, Ron!" Tracey chirped and tapped him on the shoulder. "You did great, and I have to say I expected nothing less from one of my followers."

"I'm not your follower," Ron said. He took out his gloves and threw them on a chair. "But thanks — I thought I was finished there for a second."

"It was brilliant, Ron, good thinking with that spell," said Harry, stepping closer.

"I don't think I've seen that one yet and I come here a lot," Tracey said.

"You don't come here a lot," Ron protested. "Anyway, that was the Full Body-bind Curse. Hermione found it in some book in the Library. Wicked, isn't it?"

Tracey whistled. "A curse, hum? Bringing out the dark stuff — I like it."

"Curses aren't dark," said Ron.

"Not all of them," said Harry. "Depends on what they do."

"Oh yeah, I think I remember Professor Quirrell saying something like that," Tracey said, nodding to herself. "Still, you're slowly proving yourself worthy, Ron, we'll make a dark wizard of you yet."

Ron ignored her.

"So you've finished with potions already?" he said to Harry.

Harry hesitated for a moment. "I didn't go," he said, and Ron's eyebrows rose slightly. Before Ron could reply, Harry hurried on, "Quirrell wants me to compete."

"Oh, that makes sense, she must want to know how much you've improved," Ron said. "Did you see her?"

"It was a message. Snape told me."

Ron made a face at the mention of the Potions professor, but before he could say anything a voice carried over to them.

"... and Harry Potter!"

It was the seventh-year referee summoning him forward to the platform. Harry's opponent was already there, wearing full yellow-coloured duelling robes and eyes fixed on him. She was a girl in Harry's year with shoulder-length red hair and a slightly round face, and her name was Susan, he remembered from somewhere.

In his regular school robes, Harry rose up to the table.

At the referee's words, they bowed, then Susan assumed a strange position: she raised her left arm, pointing directly at Harry, her right curved above her head, like a scorpion's tail. One her legs was also up, folded against her body. He did not understand what she intended to do with it, but the other one was already shaking under her weight.

He lost no more time and got himself into the stance his master had taught him. Facing forward in profile, legs apart just so, and arm raised across the body. Harry had practised the position countless times; the thought he had it perfected was a secret pride of his.

"On three," the referee said, "one… two… three!"

In a breath, before Susan had even opened her mouth, Harry's spell had left his wand and was well on its way. A second one was on his lips as the girl was pushed off her foot, landing hard on her back outside the platform.

It took a couple seconds for everyone to realise the match was over. The seventh-year looked unsure if he should declare Harry the winner or check on the fallen girl. Flitwick's excited claps, soon joined in by the other professors, helped him make his mind. Harry left the platform with ten points more for Gryffindor and instructions to await the announcement of his next adversaries.

"Wow," Tracey said when he rejoined them at the chairs.

"Just caught her off-guard, that's all."

"Are you sure? You didn't waste a second," said Tracy. "Didn't know you were so good. Did you know, Ron?"

"I... didn't know," Ron said. A light frown wrinkled his face. "Did Professor Quirrell teach you that, Harry?"

"We practised duelling a bit."

"Are you trying to be modest? It's so obvious!" Tracey said with a laugh.

Harry felt his cheeks warm up and faced away from them.

Comprising short duels filled with badly aimed spells and clumsy incantations, the remaining matches for the round weren't as interesting. The second one started with a different tune though as the referee called Adamaris' name up to the platform. Harry, Ron, and Tracey watched the Hufflepuff and another second-year Gryffindor take their positions and stances with varying levels of interest in their gazes.

"Do you think she's good, Harry?" Ron asked him, eyes on the girl.

"I think so," he said. Enough that Harry wasn't sure he could beat her.

"I haven't won against her yet, you know?" Ron said. "I've come this close, but she always gets me in the end."

"But, Ron, you've been practising so much lately," Tracey said, "I know you can do it!"

Despite the girl's encouraging words, watching Adamaris demolish her adversary in the next minute was anything but. In that space of time, her adversary was hit with three enchantments, got cursed, and missed numerous spells before finally falling off the table to his defeat. It was a marvel he even lasted that long.

They said nothing between the three as they awaited the next competitors to be called. Harry sympathised with Ron, he wanted his friend to succeed in the tournament, but it would be so much better if everything moved along faster. Quirrell must have asked him to be there for a reason.

"Ronald Gryffindor..." the referee called, and the redhead rose from his chair. "... and Harry Potter!"

Ron's head snapped back at him, their eyes found each other, and seconds passed without either moving at all. They called their names again, and Harry finally rose to his feet. Together, they started the walk to the platform.

"Good… luck..." Tracey said after them, frowning.

They jumped up to the table then took their positions at the opposite ends. Shifting into their duelling stances, they readied their wands.

Well, whatever happens, happens, though Harry. It's only a duelling match.

"On three. One - two - three!"

"Flipendo!" They both shouted at once. As Harry expected, his spell hit Ron square in the stomach, making the boy bend over himself in pain. Harry didn't stop and went for the second jinx, but a blow caught his arm in its arc, twisting it out of the trajectory. Ron's aim had been truer than he thought.

Ron took his chance and threw the Jelly-Legs Curse at him, which Harry ducked before sending another Knockback at his friend. With a THUD, Ron fell onto the platform clutching at his shoulder. Having hit his opponent two times and still not won the duel, Harry had to wait for Ron to rise to his feet.

The boy did so, while rubbing a spot on his arm which Harry imagined, eased the pain. He wanted to apologise to his friend for putting more power into the spell than was necessary, but that wasn't an option in front of so many people.

Red-faced and thin-lipped, Ron fixed his eyes on Harry's wand, and pointed his own straight at him. _What are you planning, Ron?_ Harry thought. A charm? Slow but dangerous… Another Knockback? Too predictable…"Start!"

" _Titillando!"_ Ron shouted, and a purple jet of light hurried at him. Too fast to dodge, Harry slashed his wand at it, dispersing the curse in the air. Seeing his spell fail, Ron did not waste time before yelling a hex, " _Rictusempra!"_ Which Harry blocked again. " _Tarantallegra!"_ Blocked. " _Locomotor Mortis!"_ Blocked. " _Colloshoo!"_ Blocked. " _Locomotor Wibbly!"_ Blocked. " _Tarantallegra! — Titillando! — Rictusempra! — Rictusempra! — Rictusempra!"_

All blocked.

Ron, unable to hit him with a single curse, hunched over himself, breaths coming fast in and out of his chest. Drops of sweat were running down the side of his face while his eyes stayed on Harry.

"How are you doing this?" Ron exploded. "How?!"

Harry swayed his wand at him and shouted, " _Titillando_ _!"_

The redhead straightened himself and, like Harry had done before, made to block the spell. He was nowhere near as fast though, and the curse found its mark. At once, the boy burst out laughing, clenching his sides as purple hands tickled him all over. He fell on the platform, rolling over.

A small smile sprouted on Harry's lips at the display. It wasn't so bad they ended up adversaries, right? They were still having fun. Only… Ron's laugh was alone in the hall. All around, the students were watching with humourless expressions at their duel. Tracey, on her chair, looked as if she was cursed herself.

His eyes turned back to Ron as the sound of laughter died. The boy was back up, wand once more in his hand, grasped tight in white fingers. Somehow, he had retrieved it and cast the counter-curse on himself. Technically, the duel was still going on, as they had neither been hit two times.

At that moment, a thought he hadn't considered yet struck Harry: what if he let Ron win? He doubted his master called him there just to take part in that tournament. As long as he was there, it wouldn't matter.

But what if he was wrong, and whatever Quirrell wanted his help with required that he stayed in until the end? What if he really had to win? If he missed the chance to be there for her, he would never forgive himself.

He noticed, almost too late, he was spacing out. Ron was half-way through the wand motions of the Full Body-bind Curse.

 _No, Ron_ , Harry thought. He raised his arm in an arc across himself, shouting, " _Expelliarmus_ _!"_

The deep red light found the boy in the middle of his incantation, shoving him back to the end of the platform. Surely the duel was over, and Harry extended his hand to receive Ron's wand. His fingers closed on empty air though, and Ron was rising once again with dishevelled hair and messed up robes, but wand firmly in his grasp.

Harry scowled this time. He still hadn't perfected the Disarming Spell, even after all the months he had spent practising. His master had shown him it in February. The hours he had spent in the Quirrell's duel range casting all these spells until his arm ached were nothing to laugh at. Anything less than perfection was ridiculous. Wasn't this the reason he was supposed to be here?

 _I'll finish this_ , he thought. Two faced each other, readying themselves for another round. Nothing seemed to move as Harry waited for the sign from the referee. He would hit with everything he had; his friend deserved that at least.

Ron raised, stepped into a stance again, then promptly fell on his face.

 _What?_

His friend laid unmoving on the wooden table, and for several seconds Harry waited for him to move again He didn't.

Then, all around Harry, bodies fell.

The seventh-year referee had fallen to the ground near the platform, while the students watching had fallen where they stood. By the chairs, the students lopsided on the seats or straight onto each other's laps. At High Table, the professors had collapsed onto the table.

All of them had their eyes closed as if in a deep slumber. He was the only one left standing.

Harry shook Ron, but no matter how hard he tried, his friend wouldn't respond. Neither did any of the others as Harry moved from Tracey to the other girls nearby. Even the Professors stayed fast asleep. Their eyelids hadn't even twitched.

It dawned on Harry then: this was it. He didn't know exactly what, but he knew it had to do with the Holy Grail. If Quirrell had any purpose in her actions with him helping her catch the thief, now was the time.

The walk up to the third floor was the quietest trip Harry took inside Hogwarts. Students laid about the corridors like forgotten mannequins, and somewhere on the steps leading up the stairs Peeves hovered aimlessly, eye closed and mouth hanging. Even the portraits were asleep in their canvas.

The door in the Forbidden Corridor was already open when he arrived. Just like in Halloween, slightly ajar — invitingly so.

He pushed it open and walked in.


End file.
